Cat's Paw
by Zooie
Summary: Definately AU. Duo is a 15 year old cancer patient with a runaway imagination. He's pathetically lonely and knows it. Then one day he gets a roommate and life suddenly becomes a lot less boring. Bizarre humor. Anti-stereotype. COMPLETE. *added after word
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: Roses are red. Violets are dull. G Wing isn't mine. My profits are null.

All information about cancer and its treatment is taken from "Choices: the New, Most Up-to-date Source Book for Cancer Information" by Marion Moora and Eve Potts. 

Information about police procedures is garnered from my uncles, who are detectives, and "Law Enforcement" by Patrice Cassedy. 

Information on bounty hunters is derived on "Private Investigators and Bounty Hunters" by Ann G. Gaines.

Other things I mention, but don't own and make no profit from: Dilbert, Frankenstein, "the People's History of the US," Dockers pants, "National Geographic," Victoria's Secret, Ben and Jerry's, _Snow White and the Seven Dwarves_, Tiffany's, Polaroid cameras, _Cannibal the Musical_, Nerf, _Army of Darkness_, Mr. Clean, "Will and Grace," the Peace Corp, Kiwanis, Mad Libs, Lysol, Plexiglas, Crayola, the Peanuts cast, Scrabble, Halls Fruit Breezers, Jello-O, "Mr. Ed," the TV Guide channel, McDonalds, Buddy Christ, _Titanic_, Sea World, "Days of Our Lives," _Sleeping Beauty_, "South Park," Frank Sinatra, Chap Stick, "America's Most Wanted," John Paul Jones, "Spongebob Square Pants," Chanel, Veronica Lake, _the Terminator_, Popsicles, the History Channel or its shows, any Revolutionary War heroes, Bill Clinton (like I'd want him), "Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition," Game Cube, "Columbo," Audie Murphy, the Soup Nazi, Kleenex, _Little Shop of Horrors_, "Batman," Winterfresh Gum, the Girl Scouts of America, Ambrose Bierce, corny car alarms from the early 90s, Telecare, "Wheel of Fortune," Old Westbury Mansion, "Lassie," Rosie the Welder, _Robin Hood_, _Mulan_, Ace bandages, Mr. Universe, OJ Simpson, "the Nanny," "Seinfeld," "a Dating Story," "World News Tonight," "Hamtaro," "Murder, She Wrote," Good Housekeeping, "Survivor," the book mobile, Taking Back Sunday or their songs, or any other products or references I've forgotten to list.

Author's Notes: My accuracy is only as good as my sources. If something is incorrect, please let me know.

Warnings: Language. Depressing at times.


	2. Chapter One: the fashionable intern

****

Cat's Paw 01

"Hello? Anyone alive in there?" 

I fight to open my eyes, my body struggling against my efforts every step of the way. Who knew how complicated it was to convince your eyelids to move? I wage battle for a few seconds, then finally succeed in my endeavor. I blink my eyes open and peer blearily through my lashes. I am rewarded by the sight of a young, blonde intern, his face mostly concealed by one of those stupid surgical masks. He is holding a bag of murky-looking fluid in his gloved hands and is wearing about three of those gauzy surgical gowns. He looks like Dr. Frankenstein. I vaguely wonder if he's going to start cackling and screaming, "it's alive!"

"Oh, good. You're awake. That'll make things a bit easier, now won't it?" he mildly states, crossing the room to my bedside. His feet whisper unnaturally across the linoleum floor. I know if I could look over the side of my bed, I would see that he is wearing some of those ridiculous cloth booties over his shoes. One of the advantages of living in a "protective isolation room" is that you get to see the height of medical style first hand. I should start my own magazine. Call it "the Fashionable Intern." 

As I try to convince my body that it _is _in fact awake and my mind isn't just going for a joy ride, the intern gently changes the bag on my IV stand. He keeps up a steady stream of chatter while he works, his voice gentle and reassuring. Today he's updating me on his conquest of the stray cat population near his house.

"... finally got the hint. I've been leaving it food for months and he only just now realized that he could trust me. Isn't it funny how long it can take to earn an animal's trust? I've met paranoid schizophrenics who are more trusting than that cat is!" He chuckles. "I'm trying to think of a name for him, now that we've bonded. Any suggestions?"

My brain isn't tracking too well and, when I try to speak, my mouth is too dry to allow for speech. The intern notices my dilemma and takes a glass off my nightstand, holding the straw to my lips. I gratefully sip at the tepid water, hoping my stomach won't rebel too strongly against the intrusion. Thankfully, I manage to contain my upchuck reflex, although the intern holds my puke pan ready. The blonde -Quatre, my mind supplies _very _belatedly- nods approvingly. I think he's just glad I didn't vomit on his khaki Dockers. 

Nice pants. Thanks, I barfed on them myself! Hmmm. That could be my magazine's first cover. Quatre in vomit-riddled pants. "Do It Yourself Fashion Tips," the headline would read. Now all I need is some financial backing...

"Well, you must be getting pretty excited!" Quatre chirps. "Your GVHD is almost cleared up! I guess those Corticosteroids did the trick. Why, soon you'll be able to move to a regular room. Just think. This time next week, you could have a roommate!"

I dredge up a grin for the enthusiastic blonde. "Pity... them," I rasp weakly.

Quatre laughs. "Now there's the Duo I remember! Ready to wreak havoc at a moment's notice!"

"Someone has to... liven things up," I manage. My eyes are doing their best to fall shut. I am too tired to even feel pain, although through the haze of drugs I can tell my body is far from comfortable. At this moment in time, I simply don't have the energy to take note.

"No, no. Not yet, you don't." Quatre gently pats my cheek, prompting me to open my eyes again. "Let me check your catheter first. Hold still." He carefully draws the covers down to my waist, exposing me to the chill air. I shiver slightly as he gently undoes the buttons on my flannel top. One of the other advantages of long-term hospital stay was that they let you wear real pajamas, even if they did have to be chopped apart to ensure they didn't get entangled with the various tubes. Mine were blue, black, and green plaid. They've been washed so many times, the fabric is becoming pilled and thin. I don't care, for the fabric is soft against my abused skin.

Maybe I could be in the magazine, too. Only my headline would read, "Functional and Flirty Flannels." There'd be a glossy photo layout featuring me in my frumpy PJs in various locations around the hospital, doped up on painkillers. Duo, looking pensive by the lobby fountain. Duo, lounging in the MRI machine. Duo, drooling in his sleep. Look out, Victoria's Secret!

Quatre makes sure the catheter isn't infected or jarred loose. It's been in place for close to two months now and I know it'll likely be three or four more before it comes out. I've started to think of it almost like a pet. My pet cat, maybe. I could call it Leech. Leech the blood-sucking catheter. Of course, he gave as good as he took, so that perhaps wasn't fair. Vomit Comet might be a better name. Or maybe Drippy. Drippy... the long lost eighth dwarf. Snow White, eat your heart out. 

That's the other funny thing about the drugs. They really play havoc on your imagination.

~+~+~

I've been in the hospital for close to three months now. I'm a bit of a permanent fixture here at the Winner Medical Center. A few of the hospital's veteran employees have taken to calling me a bad penny. I just keep coming back. That isn't to imply that I am disliked or unwelcome by the staff. It is merely an inside joke and, if you know my background, is actually rather humorous in an odd sort of way.

My visits had first started about five years ago when I'd suddenly become ill with a fever and completely lost my appetite. I was listless, bruised at the slightest touch, and had awful pains in my joints. I was living in a Catholic orphanage at the time, the only home I'd known in my ten years of life. I'd been an orphan seemingly from birth and had never known my family. I'd been raised by nuns alongside fifty other orphans and when I'd first fallen sick, they'd attributed it to normal childhood illness. When I was still feeling badly a month later, however, they'd finally taken me to the WMC, where there was a free clinic. It was there that I was diagnosed with ALL, or Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia. 

I'd spent the next two and a half years living in the hospital, undergoing radiation and then chemotherapy. Though normally leukemia patients are able to live at home for most of their treatment, the conditions in the orphanage prevented me from doing so. The hospital administrators, the Winner family, had agreed to let me stay at the hospital during the course of my therapy, serving as a make-shift hospice. So with the state footing the bill and the Winner family making special accommodations, I got the help I needed.

Though the nuns from the orphanage visited me faithfully, the hospital staff became more of a family to me than they could be. After all, they did still have the other children to look out for. They did their best, but gradually their visits ended. For the last year of my treatment, I had no visitors except the occasional charity group. It was a lonely time, but the hospital staff kept my hopes high. Finally, after the intense course of treatment was completed, my cancer went into remission. I was then able to return to the orphanage, fragile and frail, but alive.

Three nondescript years passed and then I had abruptly relapsed. A routine check-up revealed that leukemia cells had once more appeared in my bone marrow. I was admitted to the hospital that very day, the Winners once more paying for my treatment. This time they embarked on a much more intrusive course of therapy: bone marrow transplant.

The process isn't quick or simple. You're kept in virtual isolation for nearly the entire time, since you're so susceptible to illness. It's akin to having no immune system at all. 

First they stick a catheter into a large vein in your chest. In the coming months, this will be used to draw and give blood, administer drugs, and feed you intravenously. It will also be used to transplant your new bone marrow. After a few days of testing, you begin to undergo intensive chemotherapy and whole body radiation. This destroys all the cancerous cells in your body as well as your healthy bone marrow. You're then pumped full of medications to manage and lessen the side effects of the high-dosage chemotherapy and radiation. You're put on antibiotics because you're susceptible to infections. You get blood transfusions and are fed through the catheter. You puke like its your job, are nauseous when you're not puking, lose all your hair, can't eat a damn thing, get the worst sore throat you can imagine, run a mild fever, and generally do nothing but sleep. Your skin gets itchy and red, your mouth dries up, everything tastes funny, and you get weird rashes. You get really dehydrated, but your body still retains water and your feet and hands swell up. Your whole body aches and throbs. It's absolutely miserable. This lasts for about two weeks.

The next step is the actual bone marrow transfusion. They transplant it through the catheter. The new marrow travels through your blood to your bones where it begins making new red and white blood cells and platelets. It takes about a month after the transplant for this to happen. Around this time, if you're lucky, you develop a wonderful little illness called Graft-verses-Host Disease or GVHD. This happens because your new bone marrow -which is essentially your new immune system- decides your body is an infection and fights it. You get some really kick-ass bacterial infections, lose a ton more weight, and your skin gets all hard and splotchy. Then they put you on a course of steroids and other lovely medications, all with new side-effects to enjoy.

While your immune system is sorting itself out, you usually get a few other gifts from God, such as pneumonia. You can also have some truly inspiring nosebleeds. Toss in a few random viral infections, and you suddenly need all your fingers and toes to count the number of medications you get on a daily basis. 

About two or three months after the transplant, you get to leave the isolation chamber and go home. However, you remain an outpatient for the next year or so. At first you visit the hospital three or four times a week, then slowly taper down to once a month. It takes a full year for you to regain even a semblance of your former health and you have to continue taking a montage of medications. However, at the end of it all, you're alive.

Currently I am nearing the end of the isolation process. It's been about two months since I had my transplant. My body is slowly returning to a functional state. Though exhaustion is still my constant companion, now I can consistently remain awake for hours on end. This is a massive improvement over the past couple of months where ten minutes a day was all I could hope for. 

As Quatre had noted, my GVHD has almost cleared up. I'm still plagued by pneumonia, but it's nowhere near as bad as it was. The nausea is starting to diminish and my hair is growing back. Although I'm skin and bones and resemble a concentration prisoner, the swelling is almost gone from my joints. The rashes are fading, the nosebleeds less common, and my mouth is finally starting to once more lubricate itself. Overall, I can see massive progress.

Of course, there's still a long way to go. But at least I know I'm going to wake up to see tomorrow.

-end chap one-

Zooie Notes

I already have about 60 pages worth of this fic written out. I'm going to post one part every other day, but if you _really _want to read the whole thing now, it'll be on my webpage. You can link to it through my profile. However, since I'm not yet done working on this, if you read the whole thing now be prepared to see revisions made. Possibly serious revisions. CHANGES WILL BE POSTED HERE FIRST. 


	3. Chapter Two: of cats and emphysema

I know I said one every *other* day, but I decided to be generous in honor of St. Patty's day.

Thank you to Emily Hato for reviewing!

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Cat's Paw 02

I've known Quatre since I was ten. He was a candy-striper [1] when I first came to the WMC. I remember him as being cheerful and friendly, always going out of his way to brighten someone's day. Conversely, he came across as so dismally pessimistic it made you want to cry. Not that he went around telling people they were going to die and be dragged down into the depths of hell, or anything. He'd just make all these dry, sarcastic comments that, when you knew him, were hysterically funny, but if you didn't, could be taken as near suicidal depression. This made him quite popular with the older patients and quite confusing to the younger ones. 

I remember one time, I had just come back from chemotherapy. I was barfing like there was no tomorrow and lucky Quatre got to hold the puke pan. When I finally stopped heaving, he pretended to peer into the pan and said, in this half-angry, half-excited voice, "Oh, so _that's _where my tie tac went!" He took some getting used to, but once I did, he was an invaluable companion. Anyone who will squirt orange juice out of his nose on purpose is okay, in my book.

He was a junior in college back in those days, majoring in pre-med. He had a ton of course work, but he'd still take time each day to come to the hospital. Sometimes he'd bring his textbooks along with him and I'd help him study. Quiz him on muscle clusters and all that fun stuff. There were times when we'd have to go over sections of his books two or three times before he'd grasp it. Looking back now, I know his lack of understanding was contrived. The sections we spent the most time on were the ones that would help me understand what the leukemia and its treatment were doing to my body.

Quatre was great. He could somehow tell when I wanted to be left alone. Likewise, he could determine when I wanted to be alone, but _needed _some company. He'd read aloud from books or bring stupid movies or take goofy pictures with his Polaroid camera. He taught me that books weren't just the moral crap the nuns made us read. He's the one who introduced me to "Cannibal the Musical" and "Army of Darkness." And, of course, we have some really great pictures of him and I. I especially enjoy the one where he's polishing my head. I'm sitting cross-legged on a bed and he's kneeling behind me. I'm completely bald, a result of the radiation therapy, and he's rubbing my scalp with a towel. In his free hand he holds a bottle of Mr. Clean and he's winking in an overly exaggerated way, his mouth hanging open. He has a sign taped to his shirt that says, "I'm with Stinky." I have a wicked grin on my face. In my hands I hold a sign reading, "Just wait until he sees his car."

Though I knew it was unrealistic, there were days where I dreamed of belonging to Quatre's family. A couple of times he brought his father to visit me. His mother had passed on when he was born -something he refuses to discuss- but his father was a very nice man. He insisted I call him by his first name, Jack. He'd told me it was a nickname and that I wouldn't be able to spell, let alone pronounce his real name. I insisted he tell it to me anyway and it turned out that he was right. [2]

Jack would only come by for an occasional visit, usually staying no more than twenty minutes. Quatre's sisters, however, dropped in much more frequently. He had a ton of them, all older than he, and they looked so much alike I had trouble telling them apart. I think I met about ten different women, but I might be off. The idea of that many siblings was just absurd, especially since Jack wasn't that old. They'd bounce into my room, all smiles and happiness, and treat me just like they treated Quatre. It was easy to believe that I was their little brother, too. 

Eventually they stopped visiting, though. They all joined the Peace Corp. It kind of blew my mind, at the time, that all of them would just up and volunteer at once, but that's just what they did. Even then they didn't forget about me. They'd send letters or postcards from around the world. I still get them now.

The day I was discharged from the hospital was the same day Quatre graduated from the university. We had both wanted me to go to the ceremony, but in the end it just wasn't possible. He went to his graduation and I went back to the orphanage. Over the next three years, we kept in touch through letters. At least once a week he'd call on the phone and we even went on day trips together. However, med school "ate his life," as he put it, and our visits slowly tapered off. Even letters were too time consuming for my over-worked friend and gradually the phone calls became nothing more than a quick hello. 

If there was one upside to having a relapse, it was that I got to see Quatre again. He's interning at the WMC and will graduate with a medical degree in another year or so. He's specializing in pediatric oncology. When I asked him why, he looked at me funny and said, "Do you need to ask?"

~+~+~

A week later found me sitting up in bed, busily scribbling in a crossword book. The local Kiwanis Club made a visit the day before and now I have plenty to occupy my time with. They've left me an entire gift basket of game books, puzzles, sketchpads, and colored pencils. There are magazines, novels, Mad Libs, and even a journal. I am in paper-induced bliss.

I love when the Kiwanis visits. They understand that, while they are pretty, flowers really aren't of much interest to an ailing fifteen-year-old boy. They do their best to provide me with some entertainment and consistently have done so for the course of my illness. They even bring me practical stuff like new pajamas, slippers, and socks. They're my buddies. They visit me more often than the nuns ever did. At least twice a month one of them checks in on me. I think I'm one of their adopted causes, a fact I find infinitely hysterical.

Now that I'm aware enough to appreciate it, it amuses me to no end when they come. The hospital always makes them go through an extensive sterilization process before they can enter my room. They even sterilize the gift basket and its contents. They'll come tromping into my room wearing surgical masks and gowns en masse, toting along their offerings, reeking of disinfectant. They're great that way. Nothing fazes them, not even butch, Lysol-wielding nurses.

A young woman named Relena is president of the group. Usually it's either her or the vice president, Hilde who drop by. Both attractive women in their early twenties, a young man couldn't ask for a better pair of companions. Though I've never seen their faces behind the stupid masks, their eyes are certainly stunning. And they both have the best sense of humor. If only I didn't tire so quickly.

Still, I had enjoyed their visit yesterday and was currently reaping the benefits of their company. I'm working on puzzle #85 -19th Century Novels- when Quatre enters my room.

"How would you like to take a trip?" he asks with a grin. At least I assume he's grinning, since I can't see most of his face. 

"Where to?" I question, laying my pencil down on my lap tray. I lean back into my supporting pillows and restlessly shift my legs under the sheets. My muscles have reached that oh-so-wonderful state where, no matter where you put them, they ache like the dickens. You feel like you want to get up and swim to Guam and back, just to be moving, but know at the same time you can't even go take a whiz by yourself. Usually I can ignore it, there being far more pressing pains to bemoan, but today they are my primary complaint. They make the prospect of _any _sort of mobility downright intoxicating. Heck, I'll even welcome a physical therapy session at this point.

"Oh, just a little place called the children's ward," he says nonchalantly. 

"What?!" I gape.

"Your tests from this morning came back," he explains happily. "The bone marrow is integrating nicely. It's growing at a healthy rate and, except for the pneumonia, your infections have all cleared up. The doctors feel it wouldn't put you at risk if you were to leave the isolation room."

"Can we go right now?" I ask excitedly. I admit it; I'm a glutton for company. I can happily entertain myself for hours, but after literal months of isolation, I'm about as content as a billionaire in a ninety-nine cent store. I want to bask in the joy of a roommate. Bring on the complainers! Bring on the whiners! Bring on the bitchers! Just give me anyone that talks and I'll be your friend forever!

"Slow down! We need to prep you a little first," he chuckles. 

"Well, hop to it! Let's get moving!" I order. I would be bouncing up and down in my bed if I had the energy for it. As it is, the mere thought of moving has my head spinning. I lay there, blinking rapidly, as Quatre runs through my vitals and marks them on my chart. He changes the IV bag, checks the catheter, and makes me drink a few slugs of water. 

"Can we go now?" I sigh. Quatre is gathering my possessions up, shoving various books into my collection of gift baskets. He's already packed my few items of clothing and has fished my slippers from beneath my bed.

"Don't forget the black bag," I suddenly remind him. His eyes crinkle at the edges and I can tell he's smiling at me.

"Already got it," he winks, pointing to the foot of my bed. Sure enough, there it lies. I sigh in relief.

"Thanks, man. Don't know what I would do without you," I say.

"Crawl, I imagine," he deadpans, plopping the gift baskets down near my black bag. I'm short; there's more than enough room for them and me on the big-ass bed. He piles my belongings at my feet, disconnects my heart monitor and various other machines, and we're ready to roll. Quatre opens the door to my room, unlocks my bed's wheels, and off we go. 

We pass through the door into the sterilization chamber. Quatre knocks on the Plexiglas window and a nurse who's waiting on the other side opens the door to the hall. For the first time in months, I breathe air that's not highly sterilized. Bliss. Sheer unadulterated bliss. Even hospital air smells great at this point. It's damn near mountain fresh. Smells like a laundry detergent commercial come to life.

I inhale deeply, promptly spurring a coughing fit. Quatre and the nurse bend over me in concern, but I wave them off, a huge grin plastered on my face. "Keep going," I mouth. Quatre nods and returns to his post behind my headboard, pushing me down the hall. I manage to get my breathing back to normal around the time we reach the elevators.

We descend two floors and when the elevator doors next open, they don't reveal a catacomb of sterile monotones like the one we just left. Instead, they part to show walls painted vibrant reds, yellows, and blues. It looks like a box of Crayola crayons on speed. Murals cover much of the lower walls and there are cheerful posters on practically every available surface. The children's ward hasn't changed much since I was last here. It still screams with exuberance.

Quatre pushes me down several halls. I peer curiously into the rooms that we pass. A lot of them are empty or have their doors closed, but I do get the impression that I'm going to be one of the oldest kids here. The median age looks to be about eight. Not that I want to be in the adult ward. Heck no! A grumbling, grouchy senior citizen with emphysema is not my idea of an ideal roommate. Especially if he has a half-deaf wife that shows up regularly to bitch him out about leaving her home alone to deal with all the cats. Listening to Grandma whine about how Fluffy missed the litterbox is not exactly high on my list of priorities.

We continue down the hall until we reach the corner room, which Quatre promptly turns in to. I twist my head to look up at him, certain there's been some mistake. The room is obviously one of the more expensive in the hospital, having three huge windows that overlook a park. It's brighter, happier, and more cheerful than any of the other rooms. It has a huge television set and a DVD player. It has two twin beds, three arm chairs and a sofa. It has a bookshelf with actual books on it. It has a private bathroom. It is not a room meant for charity cases. 

"Q, what's this about?" I frown. 

"Well," he breezily informs me, rolling my bed into the room, "I consulted the powers-that-be and they could think of no one better to stay here."

"I can think of plenty of people who would be better," I protest. "Namely ones who pay!"

"Oh, hush," he chides. "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth."

"But, Q," I begin. However, he shoots me one of his no-nonsense, argue-and-die looks and my protests sputter out.

"That's better," he says. "Now let's get you into your new bed."

It takes nearly ten minutes to relocate me from my old hospital bed to my new one. Though normally no transfer would be necessary, the beds in the children's ward are generally more comfortable than those from the adult rooms. Designed for people with slighter bodies, the mattresses aren't as firm and they're also closer to the ground, making it easier to climb in and out. Plus, instead of being made out of depressing cold steel, their head and foot boards and side rails are lacquered red. They are well worth the effort of the shift.

Q winds up having to literally manhandle me from one bed to the other, but eventually that task is accomplished. I lie back against my new, cool pillows and revel in the buzz of noise drifting in from the hall. I have returned to the land of the living at long last. Bust out the confetti.

Before I know it, I am drifting into sleep. The last thing I remember is Quatre as he pulls the covers up around my shoulders. He's chattering again about his stray cats. Who needs the adult ward when you have Quatre?

-end chapter two-

Footnotes

[1] a hospital volunteer. kind of a sub-nurse.

[2] I don't think Mr. Winner's first name is ever revealed in the series. _


	4. Chapter Three: the germ riddled freak

Thank you to Chiizu and FreeThinker for their reviews! ^_^

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Cat's Paw 03

A few days later, I open my eyes from my mid-afternoon nap to a flurry of activity. Nurses are hustling in and out of my room, rearranging IV stands and changing the sheets on the other bed. They're in a veritable frenzy. I wonder what the cause is. Usually they're not this active unless someone's gone to code. I hitch myself into a sitting position and absently scratch at my catheter. Sure enough; the nurses are so intent on their preparations, they don't even pause to yell at me. 

"What's going on?" I ask the one closest to my bed.

"You're getting a roommate," she says shortly, not even sparing me a glance. 

"A roommate?" I repeat excitedly. "Awesome!" They are instantly forgiven for disrupting my siesta. I grin stupidly at the poster hanging across from my bed. _So long, asshole_, I think at the freakish circus clown the picture shows. He and I have been having some really deep one-sided conversations these past few days, mainly about such enticing topics as balloon animals and popcorn. He's really not one to discuss the evening news with. Actually, he's really not very good company at all. Still, he's better than Drippy. At least the clown resembles a human being.

"Put this on," a nurse commands suddenly. She's holding an oxygen mask up to my face and reluctantly I allow her to slip it around my head. 

"Why do I need this thing?" I complain, my voice muffled by the thick plastic and the sound of sucking air.

"Test results came back. Doctor's orders," she shoots over her shoulder, already on her way out of the room, spraying that ghetto hospital Lysol as she goes.

Swell. I love my roommate already. Germ-riddled freak.

I catch sight of a bobbing blonde head in the hallway. "Q!" I call, lifting the dreaded mask away from my face. "C'mere!"

The intern pauses, says something to the doctor he's accompanying, and enters the room. His arms are loaded full of medical charts and his stethoscope is in danger of falling off from around his neck. He has a pencil stuck behind each ear and one of his shoes is untied. His hair is sticking up all over the place. He looks extremely flustered. If he was a cartoon character, he'd have one of those little black storm clouds hovering above his head. Good grief, Charlie Brown.

"What is it, Duo?" he asks, sounding irritable for once. "I'm beyond busy!"

"I'm sorry," I mutter. I start to fiddle with my blankets. They're _so _very interesting. Look, they're fraying. "I just wanted to know who my roommate was. I was excited..."

I sense guilt as it clamps down on Quatre's ass. It doesn't take much. "I'm sorry I snapped," he says, speaking very quickly. "We've been overrun with patients. There was a huge pile-up on the highway and it seems we're getting all of the victims. A lot of them are kids and we have to rearrange beds and find equipment and... it's a big mess."

"Well, that explains them," I observe, jerking my chin towards the whirlwind of nurses as they scurry out of the room, busier than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest.

"Yeah," he sighs. "That's probably who your roommate will be. A car crash kid, I mean."

"A CCK?" I wince. "Uh, they're not gonna be all busted up, are they?"

Quatre shoots me a sympathetic look. He knows how I feel about blood and guts and stuff. It skeeves me out, big time. Makes me want to puke. I had this roommate back when I was eleven and, well, let's just say... Actually, let's not say anything about it at all. Story over. End of discussion. Period.

"I'll see what I can do," he assures me. "But now I really have to get going! And your mask back on!" He shoots me a quick smile and jets from the room. 

I'm left alone once more, just me, Drippy, and the creepy clown. Oh, and Sucky the Oxygen Mask. Whoop dee freakin doo. 

~+~+~

It's another two hours or so before my roommate makes an appearance. I pass the time playing Scrabble against myself. It sounds weird, but it's actually a lot of fun. It's hard, too, especially if you make your words stick to a theme. Sex is always a good one. You can be _real _creative with that. However, out of respect for my soon-to-be roomie, I choose the less risque theme of adjectives. 

Of course, a lot of the adjectives I know are pretty sexy in their own right.

I can see the sun setting through the huge windows the room features. It'll be dinnertime soon. I sigh. I still can't eat solids very well and get most of my nutrition through the catheter. Dinner for me will consist of crappy lime Jell-O or, if I'm lucky, chocolate pudding. If the nurses are feeling especially vengeful, I'll get oatmeal. Unsweetened. Hello, Willlllbur. 

What I wouldn't give for a hamburger right about now. Not that my stomach would keep it down. No, it would definitely be reintroduced to this world in a very unsavory way. Still, it would taste great for the first thirty seconds or so.

I'm practically drooling behind Sucky the Oxygen Mask. I wonder if I could convince them to put hamburger-flavored air into the tank? Sucky sure wouldn't complain. He must be just as sick of breathing processed air as I am. 

McOxygen Tank. Free toy with every purchase. I wish!

I can practically hear Sister Mary Willis now. _If wishes were fishes we could walk on the sea. _Darn pragmatist. Not that she wasn't right. Besides, who am I to wish for anything?! How freaking lucky am I to even be alive?!

It's almost enough to make me religious. I wonder if I can get Quatre to buy me a Buddy Christ action figure?

I look down at the Scrabble board and contemplate my letters. P-I-O-U-S, I piece together. Triple word score. Twenty-one points. Woo hoo! Go me. 

Give me a break. I'm stuck in a bed all day. You can only sleep so much and have you _seen _daytime television lately? Maria bonked Tony in the copy room because her fiance Chip screwed Alexis behind the Snack Shack at Sea World, making Destiny her lesbian lover mad, spurring her to kidnap Jackie's illegitimate crack baby which makes Victor, Jackie's husband, angry and cause him to hold Destiny at gunpoint until she could be exorcised by a traveling shaman because it turned out she was actually possessed by the devil and was using her ill-found powers to sexually manipulate everyone within a three mile radius. These are the days of our lives.

I'm fishing four new tiles from the bag when I hear the elevator doors distantly ding open. The unmistakable squeaking sound of a gurney comes slowly down the hall, accompanied by the slap of many pairs of feet. I cross my fingers...

A boy about my age is rolled into the room by an entourage of attendants and nurses. He has new casts on his right arm and leg. His left hand is wrapped firmly in a bandage and his face is swollen and distorted. An IV drips into his arm. He's unconscious.

He's gonna be barrels of fun. I can just tell. Not that I don't feel bad for the poor kid...

As the boy is shifted into his bed, Quatre trails into the room. He's carrying a single chart and it appears to be my new roommate's. He sticks it into the little plastic box at the foot of the bed and supervises as the boy is hooked up to various monitors. They fuss over the boy for a short while, fluffing pillows and shifting blankets. In no time at all, the nurses are on their way out the door, ready to situate the next patient. Quatre follows them to the door, where I am surprised to see a police officer waiting. They speak quietly for a couple of minutes, then the officer nods and leaves. Only then does Quatre turn his attention to me.

He sits in the chair between the two beds. I can tell his face is freshly scrubbed and he's not wearing the same clothes as before. Things must have been bad. Very bad. He leans limply back into the chair. He looks exhausted.

"Well, Duo, meet Heero Yuy," he says abruptly. "As you can see, he's in a coma right now. He suffered serious head trauma as well as a broken humorous and femur. He has three cracked ribs, severe bruising, and even some mild burns. His father died instantly in the crash and he's has no other family, as best as we can tell. According to his license, he's seventeen years old. We're not sure he's going to wake up..."

Quatre bursts into tears. I watch stupidly as he covers his face with his shaking hands. I don't know what to do. I have to do something. Quatre's my buddy. My pal. I can't just sit here and watch him cry. I have to do something.

In the end I did the only thing I could. I threw up. Thankfully, I managed to get Sucky out of the way first.

Just call me Mr. Compassionate.

~+~+~

Late that night, I'm half-awakened by the sound of footsteps crossing my room. I assume at first that it's merely a nurse making her rounds, but when the person kicks a chair and curses, I lose that idea pretty quick. My eyes flutter open and I can make out a tall silhouette in the dim lighting. There's a man standing at the foot of Heero's bed. He's wearing a police uniform. He doesn't look happy.

"Hey," I mumble, at the height of intelligence, "what're you doin' here?"

He turns to look at me, his mouth twisted into a pensive frown. 

"Ain't visitin' hours," I tell him sleepily. "Come back t'orrow."

He ignores me and picks up Heero's chart, studying it intently.

"You're not 'pposed to do that," I chide him muzzily. My nighttime drugs are stronger than my daytime ones and I can't help but slur. I watch him as he reads through Heero's recent medical history.

The police officer returns the chart to its original location and moves to the windows. He runs his hands along the frame and tries to lift the lower pane. He seems satisfied when it only moves a few inches. 

Next he turns his attention to the air vents in the ceiling. He unclips a flashlight from his belt and shines it up the duct. I blink at him in wonderment. 

"You're weird," I say with a yawn. He turns to look at me, refastening the flashlight to his belt. I close my eyes for a second and when I open them again, he's leaning over my bed, holding his face about three inches above mine. I meep.

"You didn't see me," he says in a dangerous voice.

My mind is struggling frantically against the drugs, doing its best to reach "flight" mode. Unfortunately, my muscles remain limp. I'm forced to lie there and stare at him.

"You didn't see me," he repeats, narrowing his eyes ever so slightly.

"No," I stutter. "Didn' see you."

"Good." He bares his teeth and straightens up. "Sleep well, kid," he calls as he leaves the room, shutting the door behind him.

He's been gone for about five seconds when I press the call button. When I tell the nurses what happened, they refuse to discuss it and tell me to go back to sleep. Frustrated and exhausted, I do.

-end Chapter three-

Zooie-Notes

I feel at this point a little confession is needed. This began as a how-many-stereotypes-can-I-cram-into-one-story fic. If some things seem clichéd... that's why and I apologize. 


	5. Chapter Four: the amazing Coma Boy

Thank you to Heather, Emily Hato, Erica, Kerridwen, Ace, Fallen, Shaman Dani of the Flamingos (love the name), Si-Poo, and Wyn G. Aarden for reviewing.

****

Cat's Paw 04

"... so then Sister Mary Thomas made me put it back where I found it. She always did have this thing against mice. I mean, what was the big deal? I was lonely! I wanted a friend! Was one stupid mouse too much to ask?" I pause and look to Heero for affirmation. Naturally, it doesn't come. He's still in a coma. 

Sleeping Beauty he is not. His mouth has fallen open and a thin line of drool is making its way down his cheek. I'm slightly revolted, but am more amused than anything else. I'm also very tempted to procure him a bib from the nursery upstairs. Maybe one with a cute little ducky on it. Ducks like water. Rubber ducky, you're the one. You make spittle, so much fun...

*Beeeeep* *Beeeeeep* *Beeeeeep* *Beeeeeep* *Beeeeeeep*

"You know, buddy," I tell him in a loud whisper, "if you don't wake up soon, they're gonna start to shit bricks. You've been here for three days now. After four and they start to get a wee bit antsy."

He continues to breathe evenly, the heart monitor beeping at a steady pace. I sigh, bored, and contemplate using his mouth for target practice. If I wad up some scraps of paper from my puzzle books, I _could _get a good game of oral basketball going... or maybe not. I can see the headline now: COMA PATIENT CHOKES TO DEATH ON MAD LIBS. __(noun)__ STILL SEARCHING FOR ___(adjective)___ KILLER.

I'm getting really curious how he wound up here. I mean, obviously he was in a car wreck, but how did it happen? Why are the nurses constantly checking up on him? Are they afraid he'll wake up and run away? Why have I seen so many cops in the hallway since he arrived? What was up with that odd, nocturnal room inspection? What was going on? No one I ask will tell me and the source of all my frustration remains annoyingly unconscious. I can't wait for him to wake up so I can pump him for information.

*Beeeeep* *Beeeeeep* *Beeeeeep* *Beeeeeep* *Beeeeeeep*

I sigh. "At least you're a good listener. If it wasn't for you and Quatre I'd go insane. The nurses are just pathetic. Five minutes here, ten minutes there. You can barely get a conversation going! And all they want to talk about is bodily fluids and bowel movements. That's not exactly stimulating intellectual debate."

*Beeeeep* *Beeeeeep* *Beeeeeep* *Beeeeeep* *Beeeeeeep*

"You said it, Heero. 'Fuck fuckity fuck fuck fuck' about sums it up."

*Beeeeeeep* *Beeeeeeep* *Beeeeeeep*

"Now, that was uncalled for! That was downright obscene! Say it again."

*Beeeep* *Beeeep* *Beeeep*

"Want to do some Mad Libs, Heero? With a vocabulary like that, we're bound to come up with some really good ones! How about 'My First Day of School?' Or maybe 'a Trip to the Zoo?'"

*Beeeep* *Beeeep* *Beeeep*

"Man, I am waaay too easy to entertain."

*Beep* *Beep* *Beep* *Beep* *Beep* *Beep* *Beep*

Is it just my imagination or are the beeps speeding up? 

*Beep* *Beep* *Beep* *Beep* *Beep* *Beep* *Beep*

No, they're definitely getting faster and shorter. Shit. I fumble for my call box. I repeatedly hit the red button, the one with the little silhouette of a woman on it.

"Nurse! Nuuuuurse!" I bellow as loudly as I can. "NUUUUURRRRRSSSSSE!"

"What _is _it, Duo?" A tall brunette stalks into the room, her ponytail flopping down her broad back. "I swear, if this is another plea for attention-"

"His beeping changed." I cut her off, gesturing towards Heero's bed. "I thought you might like to know."

She appears startled and quickly moves to Heero's side. I watch as she takes his vitals, an amazed expression appearing on her plain face. She hustles back to the door and calls into the hall, "Page Dr. Merino immediately!" She then returns to Heero, fluttering anxiously around him like some sort of deranged insect.

"You might want to get a pitcher of water. He's gonna be thirsty when he wakes up," I say helpfully. "Trust me, I know."

The nurse -Tania, her nametag says- shoots me an irritated look. "Duo, mask."

I mutter, but pull Sucky back over my mouth. I hate to admit it, but he _does _help. Especially when you've just been shouting loud enough to raise the dead. _Stupid pneumonia, _I grouse inwardly. _Stupid lungs._

"You can relax, you know," I tell Tania around the mask. "It's not like he's gonna just suddenly open his eyes and scream, 'I'm Awake!!!' It's bound to take a while."

She closes her eyes, visibly straining for patience. I really don't mean to bother the staff, but sometimes I can't help myself. I know at times I drive them bonkers. Quatre has told me that my frustration, boredom, and agitation are normal byproducts of an extended illness. If that was true, you'd think the nurses would be used to dealing with snotty children, but apparently they make an exception for me. A few select nurses have quite obviously taken offense to my person. Tania is among their ranks. I'm thinking of starting my own fan club.

"Want to play Scrabble?" I offer politely. "I'm in the middle of a game, but we can start a new one." I play a lot of Scrabble. Just call me Mr. Excitement.

"Board games are not in my job description," she sniffs. 

"No, but making your patients comfortable is," Dr. Merino says, choosing that ideal moment to walk into the room. Tania flushes and I grin. 

"Hi, Jim!" I wave at the friendly pediatrician. We go way back. He was the one who first diagnosed me with leukemia, nearly six years ago. He's this giant teddy bear of a man, looking strong, intimidating but extremely huggable all at once. I think this is why he relates so well to children. He's such an awesome doctor. Nothing upsets him. _Nothing_. He's just such a straightforward, decent, friendly, down-to-earth person that if you suddenly started spewing green vile and speaking in foreign tongues, he'd merely sigh and check the Yellow Pages for the nearest exorcist.

"Hey, Duo! Kudos on wearing the mask!" He chuckles, leaning over Heero's bed. 

"Yeah, well, I heard they were in this season," I return. "Nice tie, by the way. Where'd you manage to find one that looks like a camel?"

"That, my friend, is a secret that will go with me to the grave." I watch as he scribbles illegibly on Heero's chart.

"Meaning it was a present," I challenge.

"Meaning I found it in the back of my closet and don't know where the heck it came from or how long it's been there." He finishes his examination and turns to Nurse Tania. "I'd say it'll be about an hour before he awakens. Keep an eye on his vitals and monitors. Let me know if he shows signs of consciousness sooner. I'd stay myself, but I have a very sick little missy down the hall who needs some attention. Page me as soon as he's awake. And," he shoots me a glance, "you have more than enough time for a game or two of Scrabble." He hands Tania the chart and starts towards the door. "Don't underestimate the kid. He's a vicious player. Steals all the triple word squares." He exits into the hall, beginning to whistle a cheery show tune.

Tania and I eye one another across the room. "I won't tell him we didn't play if you don't," I offer.

"Deal," she says, pulling up a chair by the window. She begins her vigil over the amazing Coma Boy and I return to my solitary game. 

B H J O Q X Z. My letters are awful. Swell.

~+~+~

It's nearly an hour later when things start to get interesting. Heero is definitely waking up. He's starting to twitch a little and is breathing much faster. His eyes are even fluttering a little. But that isn't what makes me take notice.

A police detective has entered the room.

I look up to see a tall, too-thin man in a nondescript leather jacket and jeans walk in. He's wearing sunglasses, even inside, and he has the stupidest hairstyle I've ever seen on a man. You know how Veronica Lake, that old movie star, used to have hair that fell completely across one of her eyes? That's what this guy had, only his weird-o bangs are the longest part of his hair. They flop directly over half his face and I wonder if he's missing an eye beneath the hair and glasses. 

Maybe he was a model before he was a cop. That would explain the anorexic appearance _and _the bizarre hair. Perhaps if I ask veeerrry nicely, he'll agree to be in the premiere issue of "the Fashionable Intern." I'll put his spread opposite Quatre's. "Memorable Hospital Visits: 101." Or "So You Lost an Eye: Regain Depth Perception in 7 Easy Steps."

Yeah, so my sense of humor borders on sick. Still, I keep myself entertained.

"Sir," Tania rises uncertainly from her chair. "You can't be in here, sir. These aren't visiting hours."

The man whips a badge out of his pocket and flashes it in front of her eyes. "Detective Barton. I have a few questions for this boy, here." Barton comes to a stop at the foot of Heero's bed. "My sources said he was waking up. It appears they weren't mistaken."

"I'm afraid I can't allow you to speak to a minor unsupervised," Tania begins, but Barton cuts her off. I'm starting to like him. Anyone who jerks Tania around is a friend of mine. Megalomaniac bitch. I lean back into my pillows, watching the power struggle that is unfolding before my eyes. This is the best diversion I've had in weeks. I sense that the answers to my questions about Heero will soon be resolved, if I can only play my cards correctly.

"This boy is a primary witness in a criminal investigation we're executing. My superiors would appreciate it if an officer were with him as soon as he regains coherency. He might say something relevant to our case. This is not open for discussion." The detective plants himself firmly in the chair Tania has just vacated. 

"I'm afraid I have to consult with the doctors about this," Tania sputters. "I don't think this is allowed."

"Actually, it is," I pipe up. I never can keep my mouth shut. I pull Sucky down around my neck and inform them of Heero's rights -or lack thereof. "It's completely legal. Just ask Dr. Merino." Barton's attention snaps to me when I speak. I grin at him and give a little wave. "Hi." I guess my presence has just registered on his cop radar. I wonder if I've been in his bang-induced blind spot.

He turns to Tania. "I want him out of here."

"Hey," I protest. "I was here first! If anyone should have to leave, it should be him!" Yeah, especially since if I leave I won't be able to eavesdrop on your investigation!

Barton stares at me blankly. "That would... complicate things."

"Well, I'm not going anywhere! This is my room, my bed, and furthermore, it's time for _my _nap!" I inform him, folding my arms across my ribs. "So you can just take your tin foil badge and your mirrored sunglasses and leave, mister!" And then, at the height of my originality: "This isn't Burger King. You can't have it your way! Special orders do upset us!"

Aggressive much? Me? I might want answers, but I'm not going to just lie down at this man's feet and present my throat... although I do have to admit that I'm about as intimidating as a broken Popsicle stick. Sadly, the Popsicle stick would probably be more dangerous, too. Be still, evil one, or I'll lodge a splinter in your knee cap! What am _I_ going to do? Halt, evil one, before I sprawl in your path and cause you to trip! Desist, evil one, or I'll sic Drippy the Catheter on you! Surrender, evil one, lest I be forced to bombard you with a barrage of Scrabble tiles!

To his credit, Barton doesn't laugh in my face. In fact, his expression hardly changes at all as he turns to Tania. "Either sedate him or remove him from this room. Refuse to do so and I'll charge you with the obstruction of justice and impeding an investigation."

Real friendly guy. I wish Dr. Merino would hurry up and get here. This is getting old real fast. I mean, who does he think he is, just charging in here all do-what-I-say? It's one thing when he bosses Tania around. With me, it's completely different! You can't just bust into my room, order me around, and kick me out! I refuse to retreat, dammit! I have not yet begun to fight!

I've been watching too much History Channel.

"Look," I say hostilely. "I'll take a nice little nap and then no one has to go anywhere, right? It's almost time for my meds, anyway and they always make me sleepy. I'll go to La La land and you can ask your little questions, okay?" I neglect to mention the fact that, while the drugs do make me woozy, I can fight to stay awake pretty successfully when I want to. That's on a need to know basis and if he wasn't willing to sharing info, I wasn't about to, either.

Barton looks toward Tania. She offers, "He does usually fall asleep shortly afterwards."

He nods. "If that's okay with his doctors, that sounds satisfactory to me." 

Dr. Merino chooses that moment to arrive. "Ah, Detective Barton. You return and so promptly! I'm sorry I didn't warn you of his coming, Tania. That was an oversight on my part."

The two men shake hands and Tania makes a hasty exit.

"I've allowed the boy to stay if he's medicated," Barton informs Dr. Merino. "Is that agreeable?"

The good doctor looks surprised. "It might be best if we simply moved him for a time..."

"Not happening!" I interrupt. "I'm too tired, too pissy, and hurting too damn much to go sit in the common room for hours on end. I just want to stay here, in my nice quiet room with my nice soft bed and my nice happy clown poster and sleep."

Dr. Merino eyes me warily. "Duo, mask," he chides.

"Is there a reason why I can't have one of those tubey things like a normal person?" I whine before I yank Sucky into place. 

"You get too many nosebleeds," my doctor says. He turns to Barton. "I'm sorry. He only gets like this when he's tired and in pain. Moving him would not be advisable. Would you mind if he did remain here? His medication should be arriving shortly..."

Thanks, Jim. Talk about me like I'm not here. I don't mind. Not at all. I sink back into my pillows -which are rapidly becoming flat- and glower at the world in general. Just mark me down as inanimate. Sure. I'm not here. I don't exist. I don't need anything. Nope. Not me. I don't want a pillow-fluff or to be tucked in or hugged or something. I'll just lay here, dying, while you all carry on around me. Sounds good to me. I'll just lay here with my tangled blankets and my sweaty sheets and die. I'll rot here next to my mysterious roommate whom no one will tell me anything about. I'll smell real great, too. Maybe even take out a job as an air freshener in the afterlife. Dual Freshening Action.

The detective waves a hand dismissively. "No, no. We'd already reached the same compromise. It's fine."

"Well, then," the doctor smiles. "Now we just have to wait for our boys here to trade states of awareness." They exchange looks. Barton moves back to his chair and Dr. Merino moves towards my bed. He starts putting away my game of Scrabble.

"I wasn't done with that," I snap. He ignores me and packs everything away in the box, placing it with the rest of my crap. I make sure to keep the frown on my face the whole time.

He comes to stand over me and sighs. "Are you comfortable down there? Your pillows are looking a little limp."

"What do you care?" I mutter, but I say it so he can't hear. That's one thing Sucky's good for. He makes a great censor for sarcastic comments. Better than Heero's profanity preventative heart monitor.

Dr. Merino sighs again and tries to pull my blankets up from where they're rumpled around my waist. I keep my arms cross against my ribs, preventing the blankets from being moved. He tugs gently on my wrist, trying to uncross them, but I snap at him.

"Don't pull on my arm! I value it!" 

Jim lets go of my wrist and instead holds his hand against my forehead. He frowns and takes my vitals, recording them on my chart. I do my best to keep sulking. Around that time Tania shows back up with a new IV bag and a cup of pills. I chug the pills while she switches the bags. Within minutes the world is getting hazy...

~+~+~

I'm doing the best I can to stay awake, but it's getting increasingly harder. It takes all my concentration just to catch a few snippets of conversation. I may have overestimated my magical medication resistant powers.

"...where?"

"...okay, son. Calm....at the Winner Medical... in a coma... days now...."

"... I okay?"

"...leg and arm. Your ribs..."

"... my father?!"

"...bad news...father...killed...only you..."

"Oh, God."

"... be okay...know it's hard... we'll help..."

"Who's he?"

"... Barton. He... talk to you... it's okay?"

"...don't wanna."

"....don't have to... might be best.... over with..."

"....okay."

"...ahead, Barton."

"... in the car with you?"

"Just... and me."

"... no one else was ...?"

"No."

"...looking for at the time?"

"... didn't tell me..."

"...do you remember..."

"...all blurry... can't..."

"How did it... what made you..."

"...something... swerved... can't..."

"... steering malfunction? How did..."

"...don't know..."

"... were you going? ... come from?"

"...can't... don't know..."

"...enough for now... later..."

"...but I'm not..."

"... said enough!... bad shape.... shock..."

My concentration frays and I can hear no more.

-end chapter four-

Zooie-Notes

*shakes head* Please just go along with Heero's sudden awakening. It is _Heero_, after all.

Thank you for understanding that this fic is not meant to make light of cancer. That is not my intent at all and believe me when I say I understand the gravity of the illness. It is _not _merely fiction-fodder in my eyes. 


	6. Chapter Five: clicker nazi

Thank you to Violet Tears and, once again, Emily Hato, my most frequent reviewer.

Thanks also to Clairol for her e-mail. ^_^

****

Cat's Paw 05

It's all Quatre's fault, I decide the next morning. He's the one who made Heero my roommate in the first place. It's because of him that I am practically dying of curiosity. If it weren't for his darn good intentions, I'd never have met Coma Boy and would certainly not be lying here playing cops and robbers in my mind. 

The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

Quatre's meddling aside, my overactive imagination is further stimulated by the occasional police officer I see prowling about in the hall. Creepy. I wonder what they're doing here? Well, _besides _the obvious.

I examine the curtain that is now drawn between our beds and think. If what I overheard last night is any indication, the police seem to think that the accident he was in was caused purposely. But why would Heero or his dad do that? Unless there was another person in the car... Maybe someone had tried to kill them? Maybe they were royalty from a foreign country and assassins had tried to take them out due to increasing political tension! Maybe rebels were attempting to overthrow their nation and they'd come here seeking sanctuary only to be hunted down and attacked! Maybe the police were bodyguards! Maybe I was sharing a hospital room with the crown prince -now ruler- of a developing second world country!

I laugh at my ridiculous musings. Royalty? Assassins? Yeah, right! Get real! That's about as realistic as a celibate Bill Clinton! They're probably just trying to make sure the crash _wasn't _purposely caused. Standard procedure, if all the cop shows on TV are accurate.

I'm still chuckling when Nurse Gina comes in with my breakfast tray. Ohh, goodie. Just what I want. Scrambled eggs. Yum yum. Where's the puke pan?

"Good morning, hun," she whispers, careful not to disturb the patient sleeping on the other side of the curtain. "How are you feeling?"

"Splendid," I whisper back. "And I'd feel even more splendid if you managed to finagle me some extra apple juice."

She giggles. "Sure did, sugar. Two extras, to be exact." She reaches into her pocket and pulls out two tiny cartons of apple juice. Mmm. Morning goodness. The only stuff worth having in this joint. And, oh! Excitement! It's still half frozen. Apple slushy. Yum!

"My hero! I might live yet!" I dramatically swoon. She grins.

  
"Eat all of your breakfast and I have it on good authority that you can go to the recreation room later," she winks, leaving the room to deliver the rest of her trays.

Well, that's an incentive if I've ever heard one. Get out of this room? Hell, yeah! Plus the rec room is pretty awesome. There's video games and pool tables and ping pong. I can see the Game Cube now...

I only manage to down about half the eggs. Still, for me, that's remarkable. And since I had slept the night through, I knew I would most definitely be allowed to go to the rec room. They like it when you eat and sleep like a normal person. Makes it easier for them to believe you're not just going to up and croak any given second.

Now that I have something in my stomach, I can take the pills that are on the corner of my tray. Only twelve today. Hmm. Must be improving. I chase them down with some apple juice and lean back in bed, tired but satisfied. 

It is most certainly time for some TV. "History's Mysteries" will be on in a few minutes. The secrets of the Great Wall of China. Good stuff.

I click on the television set, but put it on mute. I'll read the closed captions and then Heero won't be disturbed. I am a very considerate roomie, if I do say so myself, especially considering I've never even met my companion. I mentally add Mr. Nice to my list of self-imposed nicknames.

As the show's opening theme begins, I can tell I'm going to doze off before it's halfway over. My eyes are already getting kind of heavy...

~+~+~

I am torn awake by the sound of a thunderous explosion. My eyes pop open and I spring up in bed, the catheter catching painfully on my blankets. I take a huge gasp of the oxygen Sucky is spewing out and it of course makes me light-headed. I fall back on my pillows in a half-faint, aching and confused, my mind frantically trying to process all available information into a reasonable explanation.

It succeeds.

Either World War III [1] has broken out and is confined exclusively to this hospital room or Heero has woken up and has claimed dominance over the television set. You get one guess which it is and if you're wrong, I get to beat you over the head with a stupid stick.

Smart choice.

Heero's watching a war movie, loud and proud. The crash I heard was courtesy of Audie Murphy and his ragtag group of soldiers. God Bless America. [2]

I heave myself upright and yank Sucky off my face. "What's the big idea?" I demand hoarsely. He still has the curtain drawn between our beds and all I can see of him is the shadow cast by the sun pouring in through the windows.

"You were asleep." He calmly speaks over the roar of the television. His voice is perfectly monotone. Joy.

"And you had a problem with that?" I yelp. "Do sleeping people offend you on some deep, personal level? Do you feel this insistent need to wake them up?"

"The nurse said it was fine if I watched television. She gave me the remote control."  
  
"The _nurse _said... Heero, I sincerely doubt the nurse told you to scare the crap out of your roommate!" As I speak, I'm struggling out of bed. I know I shouldn't, not without a nurse or someone nearby, but I'm angry. I want that damn curtain out of the way. I want to see Heero face to face. I want to know what he looks like when he's awake before I kill him.

"I wanted to turn the sound up a little. I didn't know the mute was on," he explains. Was his voice still lacking in all emotion? Yes, it was. Thanks for asking. "Now I can't get the volume to go down. I think my hearing might be slightly distorted from the-"

"Distorted... I'll give you distorted!" I shout. My legs are stronger than I remember and, with the help of the IV stand, I'm able to shuffle my way around my bed towards the curtain. By the time I get there, I'm sweating buckets. I can tell my face is fantastically pale. I know I'm being stupid, but I have to see him. I have to tell this asshole off to his face.

I reach a shaking hand out to the curtain and rip it back. I find myself glaring at a skinny, battered teenager with a mop of tangled brown hair. Now that the swelling is gone, he looks faintly Asian beneath his mass of bandages. He has these huge, slanted blue eyes and a nose that's so small I wonder if he can even smell through it. He also has some scary looking eyebrows that are just screaming for some tweezers or a weed whacker. I've never seen him sitting up before and he looks different. Not as vulnerable and not nearly as friendly.

To my consternation, he actually does seem contrite and is fiddling with the TV remote, trying to lower the volume. However, his efforts are hindered by the huge cast on his right arm and the ace bandage encasing around his left hand. 

"Give me the damn thing," I order, holding out my hand. "No clicker for you." He looks at it dubiously, then reluctantly forks over the no-good hunk of plastic. I point it at the TV and hit "mute." Blessed silence fills the room. "Next time ask for help," I say sternly. He stares at me blankly and we lock gazes for a moment. Abruptly I find myself grinning. He looks so offended.  
  
"Now, then," I smile. "I'm Duo and I'm your roommate. Pleased to meet you."

He blinks at me a couple of times, not reacting at all. I wonder if he's ignoring me. That would be just what I need. I finally get a roommate -a conscious one at that- and he decides not to deign me with his companionship. I can see it now. We'll share a room, but be mortal enemies. He'll refuse to speak to me and I'll torment him relentlessly about his scraggly eyebrows. We'll hurl insults through the lovely checkered curtain that hangs between our beds. Sometimes we'll throw things at one another. Thanks to Relena's gift baskets, I have quite a cornucopia of possible projectiles. I'll use them wisely and will slowly break down Heero's patience. He'll become sleep deprived and desperate. My victory will be short-coming... Then one day Quatre will come in to say good morning and I'll be dead where I lay, my skull caved in by Heero's huge leg cast when his temper finally snapped...

"I'm Heero and I know," he says abruptly, interrupting my runaway imagination. Then he closes his eyes and falls promptly to sleep. I stand there in startled shock for more than a few seconds, just ogling him. Finally, I shrug and toss the bothersome remote onto my bed, shuffling after it.

"Freak," I mutter. I clamber back beneath my sheets and pull up the blankets. Trust Quatre to find me a dysfunctional human being for a roommate. I'd rather be alone with Drippy and Sucky than with this weirdo. At least they keep me company.

If I'm lucky, no one will know I was up. 

~+~+~

It takes Quatre about three seconds to figure it out. The Amazing Migrating IV Stand is a pretty good tip-off, I guess. This morning it was on the left side of my bed. Now it stands to the right. That and the curtain is open. It seems covert operations aren't my thing. As soon as the intern entered my room, armed with his stethoscope and lab coat, he knew something was up.

Holy Kleenex, Batman! We blew it!

"Duo," Quatre chides, "you know it's dangerous for you to get out of bed without someone here."

"Someone _was _here," I joke. "Heero." Not that he'd be a lot of help. He's still snoozing, probably more from the drugs than anything else, and has been all afternoon. He's actually rather amusing to watch while he sleeps, for he makes all kinds of strange noises and even talks a little. I'd spent a couple of hours just listening to him earlier.

Like I said before, I'm easily amused.

"You know what I mean," Quatre frowns. "What if you'd fallen?"

"Well, I didn't, so no sense in worrying about it now!" I optimistically point out. "Hey, is that gum I see in your hand?"

He holds up a plenty-pack of gum. Winterfresh. My favorite. "I heard your mouth was still dry. I thought this might help," he says, allowing me to change the subject. "I also came to tell you that you don't need to wear the oxygen mask anymore, but I see you beat Dr. Merino to _that _decision." He shoots Sucky an amused look. "At least you turned it off."

I shrug, my eyes locked on the gum. "We had a little disagreement. I wasn't comfortable Frenching on a first date and, well, he _was_. So he's been banished to the corner. Can I have the gum now, please?" He forks it over into my greedy little hands.

Forget Nurse Gina. Sarcastic comments aside, Quatre's my new hero. "Have I ever told you how much I appreciate you, Q? Because I do. I really, really do." I tear open the gum and pop a piece in my mouth. It takes me a while to get it soft enough to chew, but then my mouth starts producing some more saliva and things get a bit easier. 

The day is looking up.

"How's the nausea doing?" he asks me, perching on the edge of my bed. He's a skinny little guy and the mattress barely sags. Looking at him, one would pin him as about nineteen or twenty. One would be wrong by about five years. Quatre's funny that way. Over the time that I've known him, he's hardly aged at all. It's like his body just froze at a certain point. I'm sure it bothers him like hell now, but in twenty years he'll be cackling in superiority as his peers get face lifts and tummy tucks.

I shrug. "S'okay, I guess. I'm doing everything you told me, but it's not really going away. I'm kind of used to it, though."

He frowns. "Are you drinking liquids during your meals?"

I sigh heavily. "No, Quatre."

"Have you been eating that candy the Kiwanis Club keeps bringing you?"

"No, Quatre. I give it away."

"Are you eating hot food or room temperature food?"

"Room temperature, Quatre." Tepid food, in all its glory.

"Do you stay sitting for an hour after you eat?"

"Yes, Quatre. Unless I fall asleep."

"I think I might recommend anti-nausea medication to Dr. Merino," Quatre mumbles, looking concerned. "It should have gone away by this point."

"No!" I protest. "I take too many drugs as it is. It's not a problem. Really."

Quatre rubs his forehead. "It's not good that you can't eat solid foods, kiddo. We can't feed you through the catheter forever. We need to get you back on a regular diet."

"Look, I'll make you a deal, okay?" I offer desperately. I really don't want to take any more pills. I'm starting to feel like a cadaver, all pumped full of embalming fluid. Like only the drugs in my system are keeping me from decomposing. "If I eat most of my meals for the next three days, I don't have to take any drugs. Kapeesh?"

He frowns again. "I'll talk it over with Dr. Merino. We'll see."

Coming from Quatre, that's as good as a guarantee. My friend has a remarkable aptitude for getting his way. Except with me, of course. I hope one day I discover his secret.

"Thanks, Q!" I give him my best grin.

He rolls his eyes. "Save it for the jury." But he returns my smile, anyway. "Anything else I can do for you, Duo?"

"Wellll," I begin. "I _do _want to take a real shower. I'm getting damn sick of all these sponge baths."

"I'll ask Dr. Merino."

"And I reeeallly want to go for a walk around the ward tomorrow."

"We'll see."

"And-" I check quickly over my shoulder to make sure Heero is still asleep "-I would be forever ingratiated if I could have a new roommate..."

"What? He just woke up! What could he possibly have done to you already?" Quatre sputters. I tell him the TV story. He just laughs. "Give him a chance. I'm sure once he gets used to you he'll be a lot friendlier."

"I dunno, Q. He seems kind of creepy. And all these cops keep hanging around. They're beginning to freak me out. I keep waking up and seeing them hovering around the room."

"Hmm. I'll have a talk with them about it. I'll ask them to try and be more subtle." Quatre doesn't sound too happy.

"What are they doing here, anyway?" I ask, thinking maybe I can pump Q for some info. "What was up with that detective, Barton? What's going on?"

He smirks. "Sorry, kid. My lips are sealed."

"Aww, come on! You can tell me. I'm not gonna gossip to anyone. I have no one to gossip _to_!" I shoot him my puppy eyes.

"I can't tell you even if I want to," he informs me. "I'm bound to secrecy by the law."

You can't argue with that. Well, you _can_, but it's probably not a good idea. "Fine," I pout. "Be that way. I'll just sit here, by my lonesome, and drive myself crazy with curiosity."

"Sounds like a plan," the blonde intern agreeably says. I glare at him. "Seriously, though, Duo. Is there anything I can do for you?"

I pretend to think. "Well... since my chances of going to the rec room were ruined by my little trip this morning..." Quatre nods in confirmation. "... how about some Scrabble?"

"Again?!" he groans.

"Hey, it's a classic game! You can't knock Scrabble!"

"Yeah, but I always lose," he complains, already searching for the game box amidst my mountain of gift baskets. I think the Kiwanis should take out stock in those things. They could single-handedly keep the country's economy alive.

I preen. "You can borrow my thesaurus, if you want."

"Is that how you always do so well? You sit around and memorize the thesaurus?" Quatre sets the board up on my tray and we both draw seven tiles. 

"It's not like I've got more pressing matters on my hands. And at least I'm educating myself!" My mind quickly assembles the possible words I can form with my letters. 

E E P R R T V. Hmmm. Pert. Revert. Tree. Peer. Ever.... 

"You are quite possibly the strangest kid I've ever met. When I was your age, all I wanted to do was lie around and watch music videos. Maybe read a dirty magazine or two." Quatre arranges his letters on the little wooden stand, his brow furrowed in concentration. He's determined to beat me this time. He has yet to submit to my overwhelming Scrabble prowess.

"Well, that explains a lot," I jest. I move my tiles around and am amused to discover that I can form the word "pervert." I smirk wolfishly. I hope Quatre lets me go first. 

-end chapter five-

Foot Notes

[1] Well, this might seem really insensitive, given that the US declared war on Iraq this early morning, but I wrote this last week. I _refuse _to let man's inability to avoid conflict shame me into altering my writing. This comment makes me no less of an American than anyone else and it is not a display of anti-patriotic sentiment. 

[2] ....see footnote #1....

Zooie-Notes

For a place with freedom of speech, we certainly do need a lot disclaimers....

Oh, and I _hate _Winterfresh gum. 


	7. Chapter Six: Male Bonding

Thank you to Liquid Green, Victoria, Ace, Amalthea, and Emily Hato (who cracks me up) for their reviews of the last chapter.

****

Cat's Paw 06

Quatre was right. A few days have passed and the initial tension between Heero and I is already much reduced. We've been talking during the times we're both awake and are actually starting to form something of a friendship. At least I _think _we are. We certainly have a lot in common. After copious amounts of prying and a _lot _of talking about myself, I've finally managed to get him to open up a little. Though he usually won't say much of anything, when he _does _decide he wants to talk... he won't shut up. 

He seems to have had an interesting life. He won't really tell me a lot about it, except to say that his parents died when he was a baby and his Uncle Odin got custody. He refers to his uncle as "Father" and it's pretty obvious he's the same dude who bit it in the car wreck. He also talked a little about a man called Dr. J and it's pretty obvious how much he admires the guy. Mostly, though, he just talks about wanting to leave.

He's in pretty much the same situation as I am. If he had a family to call his own, he'd be out of this place by now. However, since there is a marked shortage of foster families willing to care for ill teenagers, he has become a semi-permanent hospital resident, too. I'm not sure what's going to happen to him once he's recovered, but for now I'm going to enjoy his company. It's infinitely better than being alone, even if he doesn't say much and shouts weird stuff in his sleep.

To be honest, I'm not sure the hospital knows what to do with him, either. He's seventeen years old and to place him with a foster family for less than a year seems kind of useless. There's debate going on about whether he should be declared a legal adult now. They seem to be leaning towards that option, especially since Heero has an substantial inheritance coming his way. His dad apparently saved up some big bucks or had an impressive life insurance policy, maybe both. I'm betting they let him stay here until his casts come off, then send him off into the world. 

The cops have still been hanging around. Occasionally I'll see one lurking in the hallway, pumping the nurses for updates. I don't know how successful their attempts are; it's easier to put a porcupine in pantyhose than it is to get information from the nurses. There are times when I'll awaken in the middle of the night to find them in our room, too. They're usually doing something exciting and titillating, such as checking the bathroom for boogeymen. I don't know if they ever found one, but they _did _locate the little surprise I left for them under the bathroom sink in the form of a very realistic-looking fake tarantula. 

Gotta love those Kiwanis gift baskets.

Every time I see them, I get the distinct impression that Heero should be in a room by himself. It doesn't seem safe to be sharing a room with him. When I suggested as much to Dr. Merino, however, he chuckled and told me not to worry.

"This is probably the safest place you could possibly be, with all the cops they've got running around," he assured me. 

He completely misunderstood. I'm not worried about Heero being a danger to me. I'm worried about _me _being a danger to _him_. I mean, if the guy is so important or in so much trouble that he needs a personal police escort, he probably should _not _have a roommate. What if something happens? I'll just be in the way. Unless they think they can use me as a first alert system, or something. I _can _be awfully loud at times.

You have violated my perimeter. Please back off.

Still, the perpetual police presence doesn't seem to bother Heero at all. He seems very laid-back about the whole thing. He's just as cool as can be, even when the coppers shine their flashlights under his bed at lights out. He doesn't even seem to notice them.

Heero's taking the death of his uncle remarkably well. He hardly seems to think about it at all. Personally, I think I'd be a depressed, weepy mess. Heero, however... he just seems to ignore it completely. Although I admire his determination, I'm slightly disturbed. It just seems so cold-hearted. It was his surrogate _father_, for crying out loud! But then, I'm an unclaimed orphan. I have no perspective. Maybe he's reacting precisely the way he should. 

We spend a lot of time talking. At least I do. He has yet to tell me to shut up, so I just prattle on endlessly, jabbering about anything and everything. It's not that he's bad company or anything. He just doesn't talk much. He simply has nothing to say, unlike me. I never seem to run out of words. 

Honestly, that's just the way I am. It's not that I mean to talk a lot. I just think out loud. Most of what I say is simply stream of consciousness. Under normal circumstances, I can usually control the urge to yap uncontrollably when the situation requires it. However, I've been deprived of decent companionship for way too long and the side-effects of one of my pills includes short-lived hyperactivity. This combination is probably why very few of my recent conversations are coherent or well-structured. This is also probably why Heero finds it very irritating to speak with me. 

"Would you repeat that?"

"I _said_, do you want to watch real people dying or fake people dying? The war documentary or the action movie, Heero. Which do you want to watch?"

"I don't see what that has to do with Sister Mary Anna's adoration of chimney pots."

"Nothing. I just wanted to know what you'd prefer. 'Jeopardy' is over, so it's time to change the channel. 'Wheel of Fortune' is on next and I hate that show. And Sister Mary Anna didn't adore chimney pots. She just thought copper flashing was cool. Say, did you ever see a picture of the Vanderbilt mansion in Old Westbury, NY? It gives new meaning to the phrase, 'copper flashing!' That thing's blinding!"

"Why don't we just turn the TV off for a while? Nothing's on."

"Background noise, my man! Filters out the hospital noises. Trust me. You _don't _want to hear them."

"No, but I would like to hear myself think."

"Then you should talk more!"

"Don't you ever get tired of talking?"

"I don't, but my mouth sure does. Speaking of which..." I take a sip of water from the glass on my nightstand. My throat's a bit sore. "Ahh, much better!"

"Duo. I'm tired. I want to sleep." Heero stares at me with his serious blue eyes. They kind of scare me, those eyes. They're shadowed and still and somehow lacking in all emotion, much like his voice. I tell myself it's the painkillers they have him on, but I know in the back of my mind that's not it at all.

Quick, Lassie! Fetch help! Timmy's personality fell down the well!

"Oh. Okay," I look down at my covers. "I didn't know I was keeping you awake."

He continues to gaze steadily at me. "You should sleep, too. You've been up all afternoon."

I grin at him. "That's 'cause you're such riveting company!" He completely misses my sarcasm. It goes flying straight over his head, _whoosh _and all. "Hey, did you know that Rosie the Riveter wasn't really a riveter? She was actually a welder."

"Dinner will be arriving in an hour. Now would be the perfect time to nap."

"Nah," I flap a hand at him. "Then I'll just be pissy when they interrupt my beauty sleep. It's easier to just stay awake. There was this man, once, who stayed awake for years at a time. Can you imagine?!"

"Do what you want. I'm going to sleep." And he did, just like that. Out like a light in the blink of an eye. I've seen it a dozen times now and I still don't know whether to be impressed, jealous, or extremely creeped out. 

I sigh and direct my attention back towards the television. The History Channel is showing a documentary about WWII aircraft carriers. They're showing original footage from the war. Planes exploding in midair, flaming wreckage crashing into the ocean. It's morbid, but yet oddly fascinating. I wish Heero were awake to watch this. He loves war shows, especially if there's heavy artillery involved.

"...mmm... No! Won't let you!!" He's doing that sleep-talking thing again. Damn. That was quick. Usually it's quiet for at least an hour before _that _starts up. I sigh and turn the volume up on the TV. He goes temporarily deaf when he sleeps and I know it won't disturb him.

"... never did anything to anyone! Leave 'im alone..."

"...No! Lies! It's lies!..."

"...hate you!!!"

"Oh, Jesus. Wake up, Heero!" I call. His cries are getting increasingly stronger and, if they get any louder, the nurses will come running. Then they'll want to put Heero on sleeping medication and he'll argue with them and they'll try to slip it into his food or IV, but he'll _know _and fight with them and everyone will get mad and start yelling and....

"...NO!"

"Heero! Quiet!" I shout. I'm pretty sure he won't hear me, but it still makes me feel better if I try. Hey, I like him well enough, and if I can save him a little grief, I will. They psychologists are already all over him like a pack of rabid chipmunks. If they find out about the weird stuff he says when he's asleep, who knows what they'll do. Probably slobber all over themselves in their effort to "help" him.

I don't like psychologists much. Self-serving bastards. Never did _me _any damned good.

"... over my dead body!" 

An awake Heero talking is a near-miracle. An asleep Heero talking is an everyday joy.

"HEERO! SHOVE IT!" I bellow. And, wonder of all wonders, this time he actually does. He mutters under his breath one final time, then settles down into a deep sleep. I shake my head and glare. The things I do for him...

A police officer I don't recognize sticks his head through the door. "Everything okay in here?"

I grin at him. "Just fine and dandy!" 

He looks dubious. "Are you sure? I heard shouting."

"Oh, that was just the TV," I assure him. "War documentary. Very exciting. Care to watch?"

I can tell he doesn't believe me, but since nothing is wrong he has no choice but to leave.

-end chapter six-

Zooie-Notes

How many stereotypes can you find in _this _one? O_o

Review Responses

I've never done this before, but I want to reply to a few things that were said. First, thank you to Liquid Green, Emily, and Ace for their reassurances about my subject matter. I'm glad to hear I'm not offending everyone and their mom. Second, thank you to Emily for writing reviews that make me laugh. They convey such intense energy that I tend to inanely giggle when I read them. Third and lastly, thank you to _everyone _for all the amazingly positive feedback. Here I was all worried that people would think this was demented!


	8. Chapter Seven: no sense of sarcasm

Thanks to AtomicBlue, keep the dream alive, Shaman Dani of the Flamingos, Chiizu, Talon, Ace, Kerridwen, Firestorm, and Emily Hato (who should NOT be self-conscious) for their reviews! I can't tell you how grateful I am for such amazing feedback. ^_^

****

Cat's Paw 07

"Duo." Heero speaks out of the blue, saying my name with all the enthusiasm of a dyslexic at a spelling bee. He's not in a very happy mood, having spent all morning trying to climb out of bed only to have the nurses come running in like the Cripple Gestapo. He'd decided he'd had more than enough of being bedridden and took it upon himself to go for a walk. Four unsuccessful attempts later, the nurses told him if he didn't "plunk his behind in bed and keep it there," they were going to strap him in. He ceased and desisted. 

"Yesh, Heewo," I respond, doing my best to imitate the actor in the classic movie we're watching. Heero declared remote control dominance nearly a week ago and has since dictated our viewing choices. Today's critical selection is Yet Another War Film, starring Yet Another Appalling Actor. Big surprise, since nothing else seems to capture my roomie's interest. At least it's sufficiently bad enough that it's distracting me from the fact that my ass hurts like a bitch from laying in bed all day.

A pain in the ass. That sums me up pretty well.

"Your nose is bleeding again," he informs me before turning back to the TV, concern for my well-being evident in every line of his body.

"No, it isn't-" I begin, but then, when I wipe my hand across my upper lip, sure enough. It comes away smeared red. Swell. Just swell.

Why am I always the last to know these things?

Grumbling under my breath, I grab the box of tissues off the nightstand, nearly knocking the phone off in the process. Stupid phone. Why do we even have it in the first place? No one ever calls us and we don't exactly have pressing social agendas that need tending. They should just take it out so we didn't have to think about how pathetically alone we are every time we see the damn thing.

Or maybe I should just get over it.

I hold a wad of Kleenex to my nose and tilt my head back against the pillows. I can still see the TV out of the corners of my eyes. I watch over the tissues as the lisping actor blasts the hell out of some Nazis with his machine gun. Their bodies gyrate wildly before they fall twitching to the ground. Miraculously, not a drop of blood is shed. Apparently _they _don't have low white blood cell counts.

I hope this thing stops soon on its own. If it doesn't, I'll have to call the nurse so she can come and do something useless like pinch the bridge of my nose or hold ice on my face -both of which I'm _perfectly _capable of doing by myself, but she'll insist on doing it for me, being the adamant do-gooder that she no doubt is- and naturally neither will work, so she'll have to page Dr. Merino and then he'll come and frown and cluck and order me another blood transfusion because it's not _good _when your white blood cell count is too low because then your blood can't clot properly and you can bleed to death, slowly and miserably, a drawn-out process that is surely unpleasant and would ruin the bed sheets to boot, not to mention scar your roommate for life...

"Can you change the channel, Heero?" I ask, my voice coming out all funny, the way people usually sound when their nose is being held. I'm breathing through my mouth and my lips are starting to dry out. I fumble blindly for the Chap Stick -cherry flavored- that usually sits on my nightstand next to the telephone. However, it too is apparently depressed by the neglected and underused phone, for it has taken a suicidal plunge to the floor. Damned traitor. It is dead to me -phht! 

"Why?" Heero demands, tearing his eyes from the heroic charge taking place on screen. "I thought you liked it."

"I _do _like it," I protest. "But I seem to be leaking sympathy blood."

"Sympathy blood?" He frowns, more so than usual, and lowers his scraggly eyebrows. I swear, one night I'm going to procure a razor and shaving cream from somewhere and shave the damned things off. Preferably before they eat us both alive. Feed me, Seymore!

"You know, like sympathy pain when somebody talks about their sprained ankle? Sympathy blood. The soldiers on TV aren't bleeding, so I am for them."

"Do you honestly believe that?" he asks seriously, looking at me as if I'm about as intelligent as a box of half-melted crayons. Well, _he's _not the brightest crayon in the box by a long shot if he can't even tell that was a joke.

"Of course not," I defend myself. I glare at him as well as I can, but I don't think he can see much of my face at the moment, thanks to the tissue-eclipse. "I just don't much feel like watching this right now."

"I thought you said you liked it." He sounds as though I've betrayed him badly. Like I've slept with his girlfriend, eaten all his Girl Scout cookies, jumped on his new sofa, ripped up his porn magazines, guzzled his beer horde, and then kidnapped his pet dog, Poochie. Completely overreacting. No sense of perspective.

"I _do_. I'd just rather watch something else right now. Something that doesn't have plastic body parts being chucked around by the stage crew," I exclaim around the tissues.

"That rules out everything but Telecare and the TV Guide channel."

Sometimes I forget Heero has a sense of humor, too. 

"I guess you'd better leave this on, then," I sigh, doing my best martyr emulation. "I'd rather watch this than some baggy old nun talking about naked people in paintings." Especially since said nun looks remarkably like Sister Mary Willis.

"I thought you'd feel that way," he smirks and returns his gaze to the TV.

When the movie ends half an hour later, immediately followed by the classic comedy, "Desk Set," my nosebleed stops. I swear it's too convenient to be a coincidence. However, I don't think Heero will be impressed by my newly-discovered psychic connection to the television, so I keep quiet.

Now that his blood-and-guts-fest is over, Heero begins flipping methodically through the channels. Unlike me, an experienced flicker, he needs to pause for more than half a second on each station. He presses the "channel up" button, watches for about five seconds, then hits it again, then watches for five more seconds, and so on. Watching him plod through the networks is enough to make me antsy. It's so inefficient. Five seconds per channel; that's only twelve channels per minute! For goodness sake, there are 108 channels! It'll take nine minutes just to see what's on, let alone decide on anything! 

"Yo, Heero. How about I get the remote for a while, huh?" I ask casually, trying not to let on how much his TV viewing habits irritate me. That would be petty, trivial, and downright lame.

__

Click.

"No."

"Aww, come on. I promise I won't make you watch 'Hamtaro' again..." Especially since the one time we'd watched it had certainly scarred _me _for life.

__

Click.

"No."

"Hey, it's the news! We should watch. Something important might have happened."

__

Click.

"No!"

"What about this? Everybody loves hand puppets. Look! It's the letter 'I!'"

__

Click.

"NO!"

"How about we just watch whatever's on the next channel? No matter what it is, that's what we'll watch."

__

Click.

"NO!!"

"Okay, how about whatever's three channels from this one?" And since we're on channel 33 now, that'll bring us to 36, which at this time of day is playing "America's Most Wanted," an all-time favorite...

__

Click.

"Will you be quiet then?" 

__

Click.

"Yep!"

"Fine."

__

Click.

"Next, on 'America's Most Wanted,' we go undercover into the infamous terrorist organization known as..."

__

Click. A very familiar, overly perky theme song begins playing... 

"Hey! You were supposed to stop!"

"I hate cop shows."

"Oh, and 'Columbo' isn't a cop show?"

"No. 'Columbo' is a detective show. It's about a Los Angeles police lieutenant working in Homicide. He solves his cases through extremely dogged and careful pursuit of all clues. Painfully obsequious sometimes, his blade-sharp analysis is always carefully hidden by an apparent shambling, disorganized nature that always makes the criminal underestimate him and make mistakes."

"Like I said, a cop show."

"I'm not arguing with you."

"That's because you know you're wrong."

"Your nose is bleeding again."

"Goddamn it!"

~+~+~

"I don't understand. Why is he trying to kill them if the boat is sinking? They're all going to die anyway."

"It's a matter of honor. He must avenge his pride."

"If he's so concerned about his pride, why isn't the fiance the one chasing after them? Why is the butler doing it?"

"Don't ask me, Heero! Just watch the goddamn movie!"

"But it's stupid."

"I know it's stupid, but everyone and their mom likes it!"

"So why do _we _have to watch it?"

"I don't know! We're just obligated to! It's a cultural icon!"

"For what? Ill-conceived plots?"

"For brilliant cinematography."

"It would have to be brilliant to cover up the gaping plot holes and inferior performances. I mean, did you see how miscast the actors are? There's no way that woman could pass for sixteen-"

"Do you want me to turn it off? Because I'll turn it off if that's what you want."

"No, you don't have to-"

"It really sounds like that's what you want me to do. I'll turn it off and we'll watch something else. Quatre left a whole bunch of DVDs. How about 'Terminator?'"

"Which one?"

"We have them all. Which do you want to watch?"

"Which has the most explosions?"

"Uhhh.... I think the third. As the plot decreases, the action increases in proportion. It's an inverse slope, like the current stock market."

"Do you associate _everything _with something you saw on TV?"

"Do you complain about _everything _you don't understand?"

__

Promise me you'll never let go, Rose!

"Oh, for God's sake, shut it off!"

"I'm trying! The clicker's dead!"

"Well, get up and do it!"

"I'm tired. _You _get up!"

__

I promise, Jack.

"Duo! Make it stop!"

"NURSE!!!"

~+~+~

"Here. Educate yourself." My oh-so-congenial tutor chucks a textbook at my head, his frustration with my academic aptitude causing him to seek my decapitation. By using my super-human reflexes, I manage to intercept the Book of Doom before it does any serious harm. Go-go Gadget Arms! I lower the heavy volume to my lap and examine its cover. 

Ohhh. Look. Holographic letters. This will keep me entertained for _hours_.

If there is an upside to being chronically ill, it is that you are no longer expected to haul your sorry ass to school. Whatever school district you are enrolled in is instead required to provide you with a tutor, your very own fountain of knowledge. Said tutor shows up for an hour or two each weekday, leaves you with a bunch of bullshit busy work, helps you with any questions you have about your reading, and everyone is happy. The school district is fulfilling its obligation, you're getting some semblance of an education, and your tutor is chalking up goody-two-shoes points with the administrators. Yeah for public education.

I've been working with Wufei for about a week now. He's a pretty cool dude, for a suck up, and I've actually been looking forward to his visits. He stops by the hospital on his way to martial arts class from school, hauling along his book bag and his big-ass equipment duffle. I know he's cutting it close time-wise because he usually changes from his street clothes to his training uniform in my bathroom. He'll go in wearing his dorky turtlenecks and creased khakis and emerge looking ready to kick some serious ninja ass. Gone are the glasses! Gone are the penny loafers! Gone is the floppy, too-long hair that keeps falling in his face! (Not that the ponytail is much better.) He is radiating danger. He is a menace to more than just small animals and brittle old people. He is lean, mean, Ninjitsu machine with plenty of pent up aggression!

And he refuses to beat Heero up for me. Wuss.

Not that I really want him to. It's just... it would be funny. I mean, the mental image of Wufei cracking Heero's leg cast in half with his forehead is pretty damned amusing. 

It's not like he could hurt Heero _anyway_. Whenever Wufei shows up, the Amazing Coma Boy departs. He is magically spirited away by the nurses right before my tutor arrives. Either he has a dual-identity that I was unaware of, or someone thinks he will distract me from my lessons. 

Me? Easily distracted? Never!

Ohhh. Look, TV.

But _anyway_, things with Wufei are working out fine, except that I'm exasperating him. Immensely. To levels never before seen this side of Uranus.

Hey, if I was mature, I wouldn't be fifteen.

"The Cambridge History of China. Volume One," Wufei reads the book's title aloud, as if I'm as literate as a toenail clipper. He taps on its cover with his finger, looking quite satisfied with himself. "There are fifteen volumes and all of them are as long as this one. In fact, volumes five and nine are two books a piece."

"The history of China?" I muse. "Pray tell how this falls under the curriculum the school provided. Not that I don't want to read it, but this certainly doesn't look like it pertains to US History and Government."

Wufei looks flustered. "We already finished that syllabus. Actually, you'd completed it before we even began."

"Dude," I apologize. "I sit in a bed all day. I have nothing to do _but _read and watch educational television. After a while it just kind of sticks, you know?"

"You can recall the names of all the current state representatives and when their terms expire, but you can't remember not to call me 'dude?'" he glares. With his long hair and glasses, he looks about as intimidating as an ill-groomed Drew Carey.

I shrug. "It's a figure of speech."

He doesn't look happy, but he also doesn't argue. Score one for team Duo! Break out the pompoms! Bette

"Fine," he sighs. "But getting back to the book... I thought it would be an excellent opportunity for us to converse about topics of culture. Since most Americans seem to regard Asian heritage as a novelty, I felt this would provide an adequate basis for future discussions of an intellectual nature. Perhaps once we have followed the journey the Chinese have taken over the past millennia, I can help you to garner a deeper understanding of the value of Asia's past."

Now it is _my _turn to sigh. A certain someone seems to feel that because I do not obsessively devour Asian history like he does, I feel nothing but malice towards Asian culture in general. This is most certainly not true, but explaining that fact to Mr. Chang while he's in the middle of his Heritage Pride Parade borders on impossible. Every time he comes here, it devolves into a speech about his being Chinese. It really irritates me because other than that he's such an awesome guy. Either he goes to school with some really racist pricks and he needs to justify his self-worth or he uses his time with me as a mental prep session for his Ninjitsu class.

Usually I merely smile and nod while he bellows and frowns. This probably doesn't help matters any, but what am I supposed to do? Wrap Drippy around his neck and pin him to the floor, yelping some idiotic crud about how I watched "the Mysteries of the Great Wall of China" just the other day and not everyone is a slimy, skeevy, jerk-face with his head up his ample behind?

I begin to consider it, though, when I regard the book I'm holding. Fifteen volumes... and they're _all _this long? Jesus. No wonder the rainforest is in danger.

"Uh, Wufei," I venture. "Is there any chance that there's a Reader's Digest condensed version of this?"

He smiles. "Intimidated?"

"No... It's just, I don't think we're going to have time to finish them all..." If I get stuck reading this, it is definitely going to endanger my TV viewing time. This is so not good.

"We don't have to finish them all. We just have to read enough for you to comprehend the intricacies of China's past." He nods assertively, his hair flopping limply and, as usual, managing to find its way into his mouth. He swipes at it irritably. 

Maybe he'd be in a better mood if I got him a gift certificate to Super Cuts.

Why do I get stuck with the stubborn tutor? Why couldn't I have gotten some nice, wishy-washy, oh-I'm-so-darn-cute-and-sweet-and-look-at-me-simper, push-over of a girl who is too busy giggling to actually tutor anyone? Why did I get stuck with poor, tormented Wufei who probably has no friends because he comes here and vents to me of all people? 

If I can't talk my way out of this, I may have to infringe upon my slavish television addiction so I can read this overly-tedious book. Unless....

"Hey, Wufei! I have a great idea!" I announce. Say bye-bye to the chain and shackle, for I am gosh darn brilliant. "My roommate is Japanese. Maybe he would like to read this instead. I'm sure he must be interested in his continent's history."

Wufei looks skeptical. "Roommate? I don't believe you have a roommate. I have never once seen this phantom roommate." He glances pointedly at the empty, neat bed across the room.

Damn the nurses for being so efficient in their bed-making. Every time they take Heero out of the room, they use the opportunity to change his sheets, a task that they accomplish with the speed of a hyperactive Energizer Bunny. Why aren't they that quick when I want pudding?

"No, no, really I do," I protest. "He just went to get some more X-Rays done." Or something. "The nurses just changed his sheets again. See? His chart is there..."

Wufei looks thoughtful. "I _would _enjoy speaking with someone who understands... I wonder if I could possibly tutor both of you?"

"Sure!" I gush. "Heero would like that. He loves to learn, especially about wars and stuff. This would be right up his alley."

He nods. "That sounds like a valid idea. We could hold discussions and you could listen in, possibly participating. It would be an open forum for the expression of ideas and interpretations of our world."

Actually, that did sound kind of cool. "Great!" I grin. "Now that we've got that sorted out, do you want to go over my essay on 'the Pearl?' I discussed whether Steinbeck intended it to be a commentary on American greed and selfishness." And what a riveting discussion it was. The audience was at the edge of their seats... 

Actually, Drippy _did _have some comments to add. Wanted to know when I was going to stop hogging him and set him free. I was unaware that he was that anxious to be introduced to the trash compactor.

Wufei looks at his watch. "No, I have to leave if I want to reach class on time. Just give it to me and I'll have the teacher grade it." Wufei doesn't actually get to grade my work (probably much to his dismay). He instead acts as a messenger boy and delivers my essays and tests to the appropriate faculty member for review. I'm certain if he were grading me, I would get all D's. 

Dimwitted. Dull. Dense. "D" most certainly stands for "Duo."

"Alright, buddy!" I eagerly thrust his book into his hands. "Don't bust too many skulls at practice!" He frowns at me, looking more intense than Homer Simpson when he's confronted with a choice of beers.

"I would never be so careless," he chides, stowing the dreaded book away in his book bag.

Did I ever mention that some people have no sense of sarcasm?

-end chapter seven-

Zooie-Notes

Well, this explained why Duo hates blood. Blink and you miss it.

This is probably the most random chapter ever. I apologize. I'm also sorry if the last section contains any errors. I said I would update this daily and I will, even if it means I have to edit at 4AM!

Poor Wufei...


	9. Chapter Eight: Free Range Patients

Lots of thank you's this time around! In no particular order... or, if you want to be anal, in the order of reviews... Penny, Tokyo-Rose, Shaman Dani of the Flamingos, Elfy the Fearful, Emily Hato (who I hope enjoyed her breakfast), firestorm, Dirge (times four), Dyna, Unknown-Wisdom, Skulled, and Ace. Somehow ^_^ just doesn't cut it anymore. ^______^

****

Cat's Paw 08

"Die, bitch, die!" I cackle, my thumbs furiously pressing buttons on the Game Cube controller. Heero and I were upgraded to Free Range Patients as of Monday and are now allowed to roam around the floor in our wheelchairs -as long as we tell someone where we're going. Heero has one of those cool motorized wheelchairs and can get himself around with the touch of a button, but mine is manual. I guess I'm supposed to be exercising. Screw that. Pushing wheelchairs is what candy-stripers are for. I'll exercise when I don't need to sleep fourteen hours a day, thank you very much. [1]

The mobility is a huge improvement over sitting in our room all day and, even if I do have to take naps with annoying frequency, it's well worth the effort. Heero likes it, too. I can tell that he hates having to use the wheelchair, but hates being stuck in one room even more. He's been chipper -for him- ever since we were mechanized.

If only the cops would stop tailing us. You just can't get away from them. Every time you think they're gone, you turn around and, oh! There they are! They're leaning against the wall just as casual as you please, pretending to look everywhere but at you. It's really getting on my nerves. I'm considering bribing a candy-striper to "accidentally" run over a police man's foot with my wheelchair. Not that it would hurt very much, since I'm about as heavy as an anorexic hamster, but it _would _make me feel better.

We'd spent our first day getting to know the other patients. Or rather, I had. Heero had just kind of followed me from room to room, hovering in the background as I familiarized myself with the current clientele. There really aren't that many kids on the ward right now, thankfully. Out of the hundred available beds, around forty of them are empty. Still, it took an entire day to visit all the rooms. While some kids had parents that managed to stay with them around the clock, others were lonely and craving company. Expecting this, I'd brought some of my doodle pads and pencils along. Tic tac toe and Hangman never fail to amuse the younger kids. As for the older ones, my unending supply of magazines proved an adequate source of entertainment.

Heero and I had spent the next day watching movies with our new friends in the mini theater the Winner family had had installed off of the rec room. It's really cool. There's a small movie screen and a projector and even real movie theater seats. The film selection is a bit limited -only G movies allowed- but it was fun to relive all the traditional childhood favorites. I'd missed some of them the first time around. "Robin Hood" was my newly-discovered personal favorite. Although he initially denied liking any of them, under duress Heero admitted that "Mulan" wasn't half-bad. Of course, I teased him for the rest of the day about having a crush on the movie's heroine. He refused to dignify the accusation with a response.

Today we're playing video games. At first I'd been reluctant. Heero's hand only just came out of the Ace bandage and his other is, of course, still encased in that smelly cast. However, he insisted he could play one-handed. I was dubious, but agreed to play a combat game with him. It took him a bit to get used to the controller, but now that he has... I'm losing. Big time. And I have use of both hands.

"NOOOOOOOOOO!" I dramatically moan. "Not again! That was my last life! You killed me! I am slain! Time of death, 10:42AM."

"If it was real, you would only have had one life. You would have died an hour ago," Heero says bluntly. His voice is still that irritating monotone. I'd hoped initially that it was simply a byproduct of the drugs he was on, but time had proven _that _to be a false assumption. He refuses to take anything now besides antibiotics and then they're the nondrowsy kind. 

"Well! Excuse me for being mortal!" I mutter. To my surprise, my comment amuses Heero. His lips start to twitch and, although he fights it, he starts to laugh. 

I wish he'd stop. It is beyond a doubt the most disturbing sound I've ever heard. He sounds like a psychotic orangutan that's choking to death. I'm getting the idea that Heero is one of those people who isn't used to dealing with their emotions and, when he's forced to, is not quite sure how to handle them. The kind of person who needs to practice sneezing just so it looks natural.

-end chapter eight-

Footnotes

[1] Duo really _should _be exercising, even if he's only just doing yoga or something...

Zooie-notes

I am so sorry it's this short, but that's just how it broke up the best. This was written as one long, flowing narrative and breaking it into chapters has forced me to be a little creative at times. Sorry!!! _


	10. Chapter Nine: fun with expletives

****

This one goes out to Reb....

Thank you to Unknown-Wisdom, Si-poo, Emily Hato (no waffles?!! the horror!), Shaman Dani, and Criminal Wreckchords for reviewing!

Special Author's Note at end.

****

Cat's Paw 09

It's visiting hours. I _hate _visiting hours. Especially if I've been having a bad day. Which I have. I'd woken up this morning feeling especially crappy and, of course, since today was the _one _day where I just wanted to sleep uninterrupted, the physical therapist had to come pay a visit. Showed up at ten AM, all perky and hyper and, "let's use the hand weights!"

Yeah. I have a better idea. Let's shove the hand weights up your ass. How's _that _for physical therapy? But no. She made me do 24 reps with each arm and then made me lie on my back and push her upright when she leaned her fat, paunchy self against my feet. It only took her twenty minutes to reduce me to a shaky, sweaty mess.

As if I weren't P.O.ed enough to begin with, she decided to do a joint session with Heero. Turns out Coma Boy is also a closet Mr. Universe. Just watching him made me tired. It also made me feel grossly inferior. Not that I didn't have good _reason _to be weak as OJ Simpson's alibi, but nobody wants to have their feebleness thrown in their face. It was damned depressing.

Heero liked the exercise so much, the therapist agreed to take him to the hospital's gym and allow him to use the weight machines. They got the doctor's permission and then disappeared together, leaving me alone to sulk and await my shower. The nurse finally showed up and helped me in, then plunked down outside the bathroom door to make sure I didn't drown or eat the shampoo or something. When I'd emerged, freshly clothed in new flannel PJs, I'd discovered they'd changed my sheets while I'd showered. And they'd taken my black bag off along with the dirty laundry.

I sleep with it under my pillow. They hadn't noticed it when they gathered up the sheets. I mean, that's understandable, right? Black and white hardly contrast at all. There's absolutely no reason for them to have seen it. When they lifted the pillow to strip it of its case, there is no reason that they should have perhaps noticed a black cotton bag. None at all.

When I discovered the bag was gone, I'd... well, I'd had a wee bit of a panic attack. That thing is damned important to me and I wasn't about to lose it to some goddamn hospital washerwoman! It's the only thing in this world that I count as important and God help whoever attempts to pry it from my vise-like grip!

It wasn't until I was drugged up to my eyebrows with tranquilizers and Quatre tracked the bag down in the laundry room that I relaxed, my prize once more safely beneath my pillow. The nurses even printed out a little warning sign to hang above my bed, letting the cleaning staff know the bag was there. The letters are bright red and it's written in both English and Spanish. The only way this will happen again is if someone's illiterate, incompetent, or both.

Heero had returned sometime while I'd been asleep. Not only had I slept through Wufei's visit, also I'd missed lunch and dinner. I'd awoken an hour ago to find that visiting hours were in full swing. Swell. Parents and their children walking up and down the halls, laughter drifting in from next door, and this prevailing aura of love and concern and belonging. An aura that I'm not a part of.

I don't even have Quatre to visit with. His shift ended sometime while I was in a drug-induced stupor and visits from the rest of the hospital staff aren't precisely thrills and chills. Heero doesn't exactly have family up the wahzoo, pounding the door down for a visit. If we get really desperate, I suppose we could invite one of the policemen in for a little chit chat, but I'd prefer not. I'd rather maintain some of my tattered dignity.

Between the two of us we can't even dredge up one decent visitor. Yippy skippy for us.

I'm still a bit out of it, but not so much so that I can't be cross. I might have the hand-eye coordination of a blind gorilla, but I can still bitch like a "Survivor" contestant. 

"This is all your fault," I tell Heero petulantly. 

He continues reading his book. "What is?"

Ohh. I just want to take that book and ram it up his- "This. Today. Everything. Life in general!"

"Oh. Okay," he says, not even listening to my self-indulgent rant.

"Everyone else has visitors and we're sitting here all by ourselves," I whine, flipping rapidly through the television stations. "the Nanny." "Seinfeld." "a Dating Story." "World News Tonight." "Hamtaro." "Murder, She Wrote."

"Uh huh," he mutters, turning a page. I crane my head to read the title. "Military Aircraft of the Twentieth Century." Now that's a pressing topic. So much more important than a fellow human being. I wonder where the damn book came from in the first place. Maybe the Conservative Book Mobile came driving through, driven by Rush Limbaugh. Free war propaganda for everyone!

"You're not even listening to me," I accuse.

"That's interesting," he says blankly. 

"Sure. Be that way," I grunt. I click the TV off and flop back into my pillows. Fine. If no one wants my company, I'll just go to bed. _Sleep _likes me. Visits with me on a regular basis. Stays for _hours_. I fumble with the overhead light and manage to turn it off without maiming the thing. I curl into a ball and pull the sheet over my head. I'll just sit here in my nice little cave, breathing my nice, hot stuffy air, until I suffocate. Not like anyone will care.

"Sulking again, Duo?" a female voice breezily asks. Ehhh? I peek out from beneath the covers to see Hilde enter the room, followed closely by Relena. Lo and behold, they have not one, but _two _gift baskets. I assume one is for Heero. Not that he deserves it. 

Instantly in a better spirits now that I have some company, I sit up with a big grin on my face. If I had mood swings like this and was female, I'd probably be menopausal. My disposition improves further as I take in how attractive my visitors are. This is the second time I've seen them without the damn surgical masks and I'm still a little intimidated by how pretty they both are. They have the kind of faces you expect to see in body wash commercials or on the fashion network, not standing in your grungy hospital room. Relena looks like she belongs on the cover of "Good Housekeeping" and Hilde... Well, Hilde looks like she should be in the "Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition." 

Actually, it would be really easy to imagine Hilde dressed in skater clothes. I can so picture her with bright purple hair and a spiked collar. Avril Lavigne without the mane. Relena... I honestly can't picture her in anything besides what she wears: Chanel suits and Tiffany jewelry. The kind of woman who doesn't even know self-serve gas pumps _exist_.

The two of them are partners and own their own law office, Darlian and Schbeiker. They're defense attorneys and though it's unusual for two young, female lawyers to own a practice so soon, they hadn't had any problems getting started, mainly because Relena's father is a foreign ambassador with more money than hair coming out of his ears. Not that they don't deserve the practice. The two of them are good, really good. They've already covered several high-profile cases and won them both. _And _they won't take a case where they believe their client is guilty. I know for a fact that this drives Hilde crazy because it severely limits their clientele, but Relena will not be dissuaded. Her ideals are her life.

Hilde chucks one of the baskets onto my bed and flops down in a chair. "What's up with the cops, Duo? Before we could come in we had to fork over our driver's licenses and wait while they-"

She is silenced when Relena slaps her hand over her mouth. "For an attorney you have a remarkably short-term memory," she frowns, but her attention isn't on Hilde. Her eyes are locked on Heero. I can practically see the little hamster wheel in her head spinning.

"Hello," she says quietly. "My name is Relena Darlien."

Heero lowers his book and meets her gaze calmly. "I'm Heero." And then he returns to reading.

Relena frowns and moves to stand near his bed. "This is for you," she says, placing the gift basket on a nearby chair. "We heard Duo had a roommate and thought you might enjoy a little present. It's just a few things we felt would be helpful."

"Thank you," he returns, not even looking up. Relena hovers uncertainly for a few seconds, then turns and returns to my side of the room. "Friendly boy," she mouths. 

I snicker and Hilde, who isn't so hot at reading lips, looks confused. "I missed the joke," she complains. "Here, open your gift basket, Duo! I packed it myself, this time." 

Translation: it contains a bunch of random, fun, but otherwise useless crap. 

Translation: I'm going to love it.

Relena and Hilde take turns packing the baskets. You can guess who gives me flannel pajamas and who gives me rubber tarantulas. 

I begin exploring the basket's contents. Silly putty, a pair of slippers that look like hairy feet, a Nerf football, a copy of "the Devil's Dictionary," earplugs, a rubberband gun, a bag of "ammunition," a t-shirt that reads "I'm with Stupid," more Mad Libs, and half a dozen bandanas. "Awesome," I exclaim happily, already loading up the rubberband gun. "Thanks, you guys!"

Hilde looks smug. "I told you he'd like the gun best," she says to Relena.

"Hey, it's not like it can actually hurt anyone!" I defend my choice of preference, taking careful aim at Heero's head. I press the trigger... bull's-eye! The rubberband hits him just above his ear. He jumps, startled, and shoots me a dirty glare. I stick my tongue out and reach for another rubberband.

"Now, now. I didn't give you that so you could torment your roommie," Hilde plucks my weapon from my fingers. "Play nice, children."

"Aww, you're no fun," I pseudo-pout and, accepting the temporary loss of the gun, proceed to tie one of the bandanas around my head.

Hilde sighs in mock relief. "Phew! About time! The glare was making me go blind!"

"Would that be the glare of my extraordinary smile or the glare of my luminous baby blues?" I ask her, batting my eyelashes.

She wrinkles her nose. "How about the glare of your amazingly large ego?"

Relena sits delicately in one of the chairs, her back perfectly straight, her legs crossed at the ankle. She watches Hilde and I rag on one another, looking a little sad and slightly confused. Sometimes I feel bad for her. She was raised to be so prim and proper, her personality seems to be trapped behind her manners. I wish she would just break free and go psycho once in a while. Just lose control. Maybe do something drastic like eat a whole tub of Ben and Jerry's all by herself. 

"Hey, Relena!" I invite her to join our conversation. "Bitch-slap any criminals to the courtroom floor lately?" 

She looks at me gravely, an unidentifiable emotion in her eyes. "You know I'm a pacifist," she sniffs. Thinking I might have really offended her, I start to apologize, but she continues. "If I want someone on the floor and bleeding, I just tell my cousin Dorothy."

I crack up. "So that's what you use all your money for! Dial-a-Thug!"

She smiles faintly. "What good is money if you can't play with it?"

Hilde squawks. "That's not what you said when I suggested we take a trip to the Riviera!"

Relena looks exasperated. I get the feeling they've been arguing about the proposed vacation for some time. "Hilde, we can't just up and leave. We have responsibilities and obligations! For goodness sake, we're in the middle of a trial!" 

"Why do you think I want to go so much?" her partner bleats pathetically. "I swear, if that man tells me one more time that I'm a 'sweet child' and then sends me for coffee, I'll..."

"You'll calmly go and refill his cup," Relena finishes. "I know he's a sexist pig, but until the trial is over, he's _our _sexist pig. And if he really thought we were that incompetent, he would never have hired us. This is merely his way of coping with a stressful situation." 

Hilde sits up in her seat, an aggressive look on her face. "Well, I wish he'd go cope with it somewhere that begins with an 'h' and ends with a 'l.'"

"We're all adults here, Hilde!" I announce jovially, interrupting their argument before it can escalate further. The growing tension between them is intimidating. I begin to see how they're so successful in court. "We're quite well-versed in the art of profanity! Shit piss cock fuck ass bitch..."

The tension is gone and Hilde is grinning at me, her head tilted to one side. "You know," she says conspiratorially, "if you combine words, you can make curses so vehement people and their pets spontaneously combust when they hear them."

"Really?" I make my eyes purposefully wide. "Pray tell."

"Certainly. Tell me, have you ever heard the expression 'llama-raping cock-waffle?'" Hilde delivers the phrase in such a serious, documentary-like tone that it's all I can do not to bust out laughing. National Geographic, meet Hilde Schbeiker, queen of the Obscenity Safari.

"Personally, I've always been partial to 'pie-fucking uncle-humper,'" I tell her nonchalantly. 

She nods, a look of understanding on her face. "Ahh, yes. Fice is nice, but incest is best."

"Precisely."

"I'm not hearing this," Relena says abruptly. Her cheeks are pink and her hands are fluttering nervously in her lap.

Hilde rolls her eyes. "She can listen to criminals recount inhumane crimes for hours, look at police photographs of murder scenes, and interrogate rapists, but she can't withstand a good, old-fashioned cuss session. Pathetic."

I cluck in consternation. "I guess she's not as tough as she looks," I say sadly.

"Poor little girl," Hilde shakes her head. "All grown up and..."

"Shut up, you... you shit-faced cockmasters!" Relena suddenly sputters. Her eyes fly wide and she claps her hands over her mouth. Hilde and I cheer.

"All right, Relena!"

"Welcome to the gutter!"

"Say it loud and say it proud, sister!"

"I'm trying to read," a monotone voice states loudly, bringing our fun to a screeching halt.

Oh ho ho. Looks like we disturbed I'm-too-superior-and-mighty-to-talk-to-you Yuy. Well, too effing bad.

"Here," I say, rifling through my gift basket. "Use these." I chuck the earplugs across the room at him. They land on his covers and he eyes the small plastic package emotionlessly.

"Thanks" he says evenly. "I need these if I'm to live with you."

"Fuck you," I yell, all creative expletives flying from my mind. I start to climb out of bed, but then Relena is up and out of her chair, moving between us. She sits down on the edge of Heero's bed and snatches his good hand up in hers.

"So, Heero," she says, "I understand you're a big fan of times gone by. I'm a bit of a history buff, myself. Have you ever read, 'the People's History of the United States?' It's quite intriguing." 

Heero stares at me for a few seconds more, then turns his attention to the blonde sitting next to him. "I read it," he states flatly. "I didn't like it. Too emotional. History shouldn't be about emotion. It should be about facts."

Hilde tugs on my arm, diverting my attention. "Want to play some Scrabble?" she asks brightly. "I might as well put my $200,000 education to good use!"

"No, I don't feel like it," I tell her bluntly. I lay back down in bed and cross my arms behind my head. I stare up at the ceiling, examining the ugly gray tiles.

"Oh, come on," the petite lawyer prods. "You're the only one worth playing. Everyone else is so easy to beat. It'll be fun!"

"I'm tired," I say flatly. I roll over so my back is facing her and pull my arms down to my chest. "I'm going to sleep."

I shut my eyes and listen as Relena and Heero argue over the accurate interpretation of the past. Hilde rubs my back until I fall asleep.

~+~+~

Mmmm. Don't wanna move. Fuzzy.... Soft....... Warm.... Comfortable...... Drifty.....

"Duo! Wake up, Duo!" Suddenly a female voice is whispering harshly into my ear. 

Nooooo..... Fuzzy..... Soft....Comfortable.

"DUO!"

I crack open my eyes and see Hilde crouched beside my bed, an intense look in her eyes. I blink at her, my eyes gummy.

"Wha?" I grunt back. Drifty.... Warm.... My mind won't focus. 

"Relena and I thought something was wrong, but we didn't want to scare you," Hilde says quickly, still whispering. "But we talked it over and thought we should warn you. She recognized Heero's name from recent buzz in the legal system. His dad was a private investigator and he was working on a really big case when he died. They think he might have been murdered."

"Wha?" I mutter, feeling a little more awake. Mmmmmm. Blanket.... Soft......

"That's why there are so many cops around," Hilde continues. "They probably think the killer might come back for Heero because he's a witness to the crime. Relena's speaking with the hospital administrators right now. She's trying to get you out of this room. You could be in danger."

"But why?" I mumble, my mind racing around in stupid little circles. Drifty... Warm...

"Who knows?" Hilde whispers. "Diversionary tactic? I don't know! The point is, we're trying to get you out!"

"'M I in trouble?" I manage, trying hard to concentrate. She seems so upset.... I get the distinct impression that Hilde is afraid. I begin to feel frightened as well.

She bites her lips, looking thoughtful. "Probably not immediate danger," she admits. "They have this room under really good guard. I had to sneak in here under the premise of finding my purse. Shit! I really need to get going. But don't worry," she assures me hurriedly, seeing the way my eyes are turning huge. "Like I said, you're not in immediate danger. Just be careful! We'll do our best to get your room changed!" She plants a kiss on my forehead and stands. "Be safe, kid!" she murmurs on her way out the door.

"Hilde?" I whisper after her, but she doesn't come back. I'm alone in the dark, uncertain that she had even been in the room. The conversation seems that surreal in my mind.

I lay there, thoughts churning through my skull. I break out in a cold sweat. Did that just happen? 

Drifty... Warm... Soft... Back to sleep....

NO. Must. Wake. Up. Must. Focus. Must. Think.

With a valiant effort, I kick start my brain into motion. It goes from zero to mach twelve in about two seconds. NASA would kill for rockets like that.

This cannot be happening. It just can't be happening. This is the kind of shit that happens on crappy TV shows with massive budget cuts. It's the kind of plot device writers use when they're out of ideas. It's _not _the kind of thing that actually happens to people. Especially me. Nothing exciting happens to me. Shit, the most exciting thing that's happened to me in the past six months was discovering Halls Fruit Breezers!

Cough drops that taste good _and _work. It's just unnatural.

This stuff just doesn't _happen _to people like me! My mind screams furiously that this must not be real. It must be a product of my sick imagination. Yeah, it must be a nightmare. A nighttime figment. I always was really good for coming up with those. Convinced myself one time that a chair was actually a cave troll crouched in the corner, ready to gouge my eyes out if I so much as twitched. When the nuns found me in the morning, I couldn't move because my muscles were so tense.

Yeah. This is just like the cave troll. It's not real. It's not. It's just one more case of my imagination running away with me, kit and caboodle. 

My eyes lock themselves involuntarily on Heero's sleeping form and all my assurances fade. I stare blankly, wishing like hell I could be elsewhere. Then I realize I can be. I hit the call button for the nurse.

I swear I don't breathe until she arrives. 

"What is it?" she asks in a low voice. 

"I don't want to be in here! I really don't want to be here! Really, really don't," I stutter in a high-pitched voice. Shit. That wasn't what I was planning to say. I was planning on being cool and collected, nicely informing her that no, I didn't want to be an innocent bystander in a murder case and yes, I would like to move to a different room. Instead I sound like a hysterical teenage girl who just discovered her acne medication ran out the night before the prom.

"Okay, calm down," the nurse soothes, rubbing my arm through the blanket. "What happened?"

"He's gonna get me killed!" I say, jerking my head towards Heero. The nurse flicks her eyes in that direction, then returns her gaze to me.

"What gave you that idea?" she smiles. I can tell she honestly doesn't believe me in the least. A glimmer of hope arises in my chest. 

"You mean he's not a witness to a murder?" I whisper. The nurses know everything. They rule this ward like they're fascists. If she hasn't heard about the murder mystery, that's pretty good indication it's just a rumor. And Hilde and Relena _are _trial lawyers. They're used to jumping to the worst conclusions. If Hilde had even been here in the first place.

The nurse laughs quietly. "No, honey, he's not. That must have been some nightmare you had."

"Yeah, maybe," I admit. Now that my panic is receding, some semblance of logic instilling itself in my thoughts, I find myself more perceptive to the idea that Hilde's visit was a nightmare. It made sense. I _had _just seen her and I _was _all worked up over Heero. Why wouldn't I dream about them? Yeah. It was just a dream.

"Do you think you can go back to sleep?" the nurse asks. I start to nod, then catch sight of Heero out of the corner of my eye. I must have looked panicky, because she sighs and tells me she'll get some sleeping pills.

I don't move and hardly breathe while she's gone. Then I make her stay with me until I fall asleep. By then I'm almost positive I'd dreamed the entire thing. When I wake up the next morning and I'm still in the room with Heero, I'm certain of it.

Relena Darlian always gets her way.

-end chapter nine-

Special Author's Note

First, this will be the last one-a-day chapter for a while. I had a conclusion all written up and ready, but now I find myself wanting to play with this some more. There's plenty of leeway to do so and I think I will. However, I've got a ton of responsibilities, activities, and classes, so updates will be a bit..... I guess random is a good word. ^_^

Second, the same question has been brought up a few times now: Is this going to be shounen-ai or yaoi or neither? Yaoi... definitely not. According to my research, 78% of cancer patients have problems initiating in sexual relations. Besides which, I can't even _read _sex scenes, let alone write them! *blushes* As for Shounen-ai... I'm not sure yet. Maybe.


	11. Chapter Ten: What in the name of thunder...

Thanks go out to the following people: 

Dirge (for her impressive array of reviews, on this and other fics), Mama-sama, Talon, Emily Hato, Ace, Hakumei, Neko-chan, Vampire Queen, Galyn, Kerridwen, penny, Unknow Wisdom, Si-poo (you're welcome for thanking me for thanking you), Shinko, makya, and LB. ^_^

Thanks also to those who reviewed the first version of this chapter. Sorry about that!

****

Cat's Paw 10

"Want to play Bullshit?" Heero randomly asks, startling the catfish bait out of me. I flinch forcefully, hitting my knees on the bottom of my bedside tray, displacing the neatly arranged rows of letters that constituted the manifestation of my morning's mental exertion. They spill onto my bed like an extremely unappetizing alphabet soup. I sigh as I realize my Scrabble game has fallen victim to Heero's haphazard speech patterns. I sigh again as I recognize the harsh truth that I probably need some Valium.

It's the day after Hilde and Relena visited and I've been jumpier than a hyperactive Chihuahua all morning. Every time Heero so much as breathes I've been ready to flee the hospital premises, trailing Drippy along behind me like a outlandish pet dog on a leash. My fears have latched onto my consciousness like a gold-digger to Bill Gates. They are my new best friend. I just cannot shake the suspicion that all is not well in the World-o-Heero. Though last night I was perfectly willing to believe that everything was merely just a dream, things are looking a whole lot different in the morning light.

What in the name of thundermuffins is going on here? 

You know, since I met Heero, I've really learned a lot about myself. For instance, this morning I learned that I'm very good at sharing and especially excel at allocating my opinion. Every time my roomie vacates my immediate area, I have been verily sharing my thoughts with--read: thrusting my worries upon-- whatever unsuspecting soul happens to chance along. Despite reassurances from the interns, the nurses, the doctors, the physical therapist, the Roaming Nomad Priest, the janitor, Drippy, Sucky, the psycho clown poster, and the underwear gnomes who I swear live under the bed, I remain unconvinced that there is no evil afoot. 

Whoever said "if you give you shall receive" took just one too many drags off the old doobie.

From my point of view, there is more than enough evidence in the surrounding environment -namely the police and their oh-so-nonchalant actions, but also Heero's abrupt comings and goings- to support the idea that something in ward eight is seriously FUBAR... and it sure ain't my perception of reality. However, since no one will validate my pressing concerns, I am forced to remain ensconced with the time bomb affectionately nicknamed Coma Boy. I am less than pleased -and far from relaxed. You could probably bounce quarters off the nervous aura I'm exuding. It's all I can do to not start spewing out obscenities like I have turrets syndrome. 

I believe it was Mark Twain who observed that under certain circumstances, profanity provides a relief denied even to prayer. 

I am fairly certain that Heero has noticed my erratic behavior. My diving to the floor when he threw back his covers was probably a dead give away. How was I supposed to know that he was only overheated and not trying to avoid a terrorist attack? 

Every time I look at him, I get this fierce desire to be lonesome. The trouble with roommates is that they're not returnable.

At least Hilde left me armed, though I doubt rubberbands would stop a prairie dog, let alone a murderer. Unless, of course, it was Gimpy, the frail, sickly prairie dog, or it was a murder who was borderline retarded. [1]

"Eh-heh heh heh," I chuckle nervously. "Come again, buddy?" My voice is unnaturally high and kind of squeaks intermittently. I sound like Mickey Mouse on helium. Heero looks at me oddly, his fugly eyebrows lowered to a depth that looks _way _too menacing for my comfort. My panic meter creeps to new heights, stopping to hover somewhere above "twitch spastically" but below "ooze a large body of water." 

"Do you want to play Bullshit?" he repeats patiently. At least I _think _it's patiently. With his monotone it's kind of hard to tell. It could be menacingly. It could have sadistic undertones. He could have _said _"do you want to play Bullshit?" but actually have meant "do you want to watch as I disembowel this small, fuzzy animal that I just happen to have snatched off the windowsill during the wee morning hours?" 

Poor Gimpy. Run, Gimpy! Run! Run like da wind!

And -did he say _Bullshit_? Jumping Gee Willikers. Oh, yes. That's just what I want to do. Play "who's lying and making shit up" with a boy who's lying and making shit up. Swell. Bundles of joy. Words cannot hope to capture the mere shadows of my euphoria. Where do I sign the papers, sir?

"No, that's alright," I sputter, trying to collect all the fallen Scrabble tiles from my lap. It's difficult because my fine motor skills are nonexistent. Much like my intelligence. "Lunch is going to be here soon and then Wufei will be showing up so..."

"Lunch isn't for an hour and Wufei isn't coming this week. It's spring break, remember?" Heero argues, completely creeping me out. Why does he know that? He's never even _met _Wufei, let alone talked to him! How could he have known that--

Oh, wait. _I _told him. Never mind. 

"I don't know," I mumble. "My throat is sore today and I don't want to talk a lot." 

*cough* *cough* *hack* Get the point or do I need to smack you repeatedly with the telephone receiver? 

Diplomacy is the skilled use of blunt objects. 

"You don't need to," he dismisses my pathetic pretext with nary a second thought, wielding logic more skillfully than Charles Babbage.

Sure. Just shoot my excuse to hell. I don't mind. Dammit. 

"Let's start," he continues, almost visibly donning his thinking cap. I wonder if it has a little propeller on top. "We'll play for rubberbands."

"Rubberbands?" I make an incredulous face... but not too incredulous. Wouldn't want to offend anyone... "But you don't have a rubberband gun. What are you going to do with rubberbands?" Strangle me while I sleep, perhaps? Tie me to my bed so when the murderer shows up I'm defenseless and trapped, an ample distraction that will buy you time to get away?

"If I have your rubberbands," he explains long-sufferingly, "then you can't shoot me with them." 

Oh. That _did _make sense. Especially since I'd been clutching said weapon all morning. Turns out my trigger finger is a bit itchy... Heero had already nearly lost an eye more than once and hence I'd almost lost my life an equal number of times. Quite literally, I'm certain.

How can I get out of this...? 

While my main concern is to limit my interaction with Screwy Yuy, I must confess to an alternative, exceedingly egotistical motive: the preservation of pride. I am quite possibly the worst Bullshitter in the world. I just can't lie. Every time I try, I get this look on my face that resembles a cross between a cow who's been hit one too many times with the ole cattle prod and a US senator who's just been accused of bonking the intern. I learned long ago that it was better to be honest and look apologetic than lie and look guilty. I try to adhere to a diet of strict truth.

Good grief. Now I sound like the narrator in _the Great Gatsby_. "I am the most honest person I know." And we all know where _that _got him: generations of scholars and students suspecting that he lies like a rug and not trusting a thing he says. Me thinketh he doth protest too much.

Anyway, the important thing is that I can't lie. And since I can't lie, there's no way in hell I'm going to win at Bullshit, not unless Heero agrees to wear a blindfold. And much like a three year old in a game of Candy Land, I'm not much interested in playing if I know I'm going to lose.

Hey, I've been a loser for most of my life. Anything I can do to redeem that situation gets two thumbs up from my panel of critics, albeit they're slightly biased.

What to do... what to do... Pretend to faint? Lock myself in the bathroom? Run away? All of my ideas are worth about as much as a belch, the difference being that the belch would be more satisfying. I am in the depths of despair over my uncreative-ness when inspiration smacks me atop head with a brick. 

I can play the Fairness Card. No one likes to take part in an activity when they're getting the short end of the stick! I'll just casually observe that Heero's bound to lose and he'll lose interest in playing. From what I've seen, he's very competitive. Of course, it's more in fairness to _me _than to Heero, but he doesn't need to know that.

"I think I have a lot more rubberbands than you do, Heero," I cunningly inform him. "That would be an unfair advantage." And that would be _bad_.

He holds up a wad of rather stretch-out rubberbands. "Sixty-five," he says, brandishing them around like a demented bouquet of dead slugs.

"Sixty-five?" I repeat weakly. 

"You have shot me with sixty-five rubberbands." I guess my trigger finger is itchier than I thought. Who am I kidding? It's damn near epileptic. "That woman gave you 150 to start off with, so you have 85 left. I'm willing to begin with a ten rubberband handicap." He stares at me, looking ever-so-slightly perturbed.

"Well, alright," I agree reluctantly. "I guess we can play then..." Time to stop arguing. Wouldn't want to anger the murder-attracting Coma Boy. That cannot be good, my friend. Being a human shield is not my idea of a good time. Staying in his fair graces would be a first-rate idea. People generally don't try to kill their friends.

Of course, man _is _the only animal that can remain on friendly terms with the animals he intends to eat right up until the moment he slaughters them. 

Funny. Heero doesn't _look _like a butcher. He's just sitting there, staring at me with his creepy eyes and tiny nose and creative facial hair. He's just staring... staring... staring...

Shit. Does he ever blink?! My eyes begin to burn just looking at him.

"I go first," he says, breaking the silence, his eyelids finally flicking down. Surprise surprise! "There are 74 letters in the Cambodian alphabet."

"T-true.," I stutter. I don't want to play! Time out! Red means stop! Do not go! No no no! Heero looks at me expectantly. Oh, crud. I'd better say something. "Uhhhh.....A-a chimpanzee can learn to recognize itself in a mirror, but other monkeys can't."

"True?" I nod, indicating he's correct. "Dueling is legal in Paraguay as long as both parties are registered blood donors."

"True. Cheerios cereal was originally called Cheerioats."

"True. Ballistics is the science that deals with the motion of projectiles."

"True. The phrase 'rule of thumb' is derived from an old English law which stated that you couldn't beat your wife with anything wider than your thumb." Okay. This isn't so bad. I can handle this. A little game, a little fun. Nice-nice. We're bonding. We're cool. We're doing fine. We're not really _bullshitting_, but whatever.

"True. Theodore Roosevelt was the only U.S. president to deliver an inaugural address without using the word 'I'."

"True. Dr. Seuss wrote _Green Eggs and Ham_ after his editor dared him to write a book using fewer than 50 different words." 

"True. The water in the Great Salt Lake of Utah is more than four times as salty as any ocean."

"True. A lump of pure gold the size of a matchbox can be flattened into a sheet the size of a tennis court." 

"True. Large doses of coffee can be lethal. Ten grams, or 100 cups over 4 hours, can kill the average human."

"True. The word 'assassination' was invented by Shakespeare."

"Bullshit," Heero barks, scaring the bajeezes out of me. I nearly have a coronary. If I was still hooked up to a heart monitor, the nurses would have run in with the crash cart. As it is, I succeed in once more spilling the Scrabble tiles across my bed. I _knew _I shouldn't have left the tray there! Stupid stupid stupid!

There is no such thing as an underestimate of average intelligence. 

"Actually..." I reluctantly falter, keeping my eyes strictly confined to the vowels and consonants before me. Maybe Heero's like a wild animal. If I don't look in his eyes, perhaps he won't feel threatened. "Actually, it's true."

"Prove it," he challenges. "Prove you're not making it up."

I glare. Discretion only goes so far and I tend to keep mine on a rather short tether. I generally don't trust it to go far out of my sight. "How would you like me to do that? Am I supposed to magically whip an encyclopedia out of my ass?"

"How do I know you're telling the truth if you have no way of proving it?" Heero disputes, proving it is not necessary to understand things in order to argue about them. 

"_You're _the one that wanted to play this in the first place!" I glare. 

"Fine." He tosses a rubberband in my direction. I immediately load my gun with it and shoot it right back at him.

"I don't want your goddamn pity rubberband," I tell him.

"Are you done?" Heero actually looks rather pissed. Oh, good lord. I've managed to anger the Harpy of Death. [2] Way to go, Duo! What would you like written on your gravestone?

Now I'll really raise Hell. That sounds fairly apt.

"I'm done," I meekly acquiesce. Please don't kill me, Mr. Eyebrow Man....

"Fine." He takes a deep breath and shifts slightly in bed. "Johnny Ace, real name John Marshall Alexander, Jr., a singer. Committed suicide while playing Russian roulette in 1954. Ray Combs - talk show host of Family Feud- hanged himself on the night of June 2, 1996, with bed sheets in his hospital room at Glendale Adventist Hospital while on a 72-hour suicide watch. In 1987 R. Budd Dwyer -a politician from Pennsylvania- was convicted of bribery and conspiracy in federal court, but before he was sentenced he called a press conference and, in front of spectators and TV cameras, he shot himself in the mouth. Actress Lillian Millicent Entwistle committed suicide in 1932 by jumping from the 'H' of the 'HOLLYWOOD(LAND)' sign. Eugene Izzi, a famous writer, hanged himself in 1997 from an 11th-floor window on Michigan Ave., Chicago. There is speculation that it perhaps happened by accident while he was researching a scene for a book. Jim Jones - leader of a religious cult known as the Peoples Temple killed himself in 1978 after watching more than 900 of his followers die from the ingestion of Kool-Aid laced with cyanide. In 1933, a 19 year old Japanese student named Kiyoko Matsumoto committed suicide by jumping into the thousand foot crater of a volcano on the island of Oshima, Japan. This act started a bizarre fashion in Japan and in the ensuing months three hundred children did the same thing. Actress Lupe Velez took an overdose of sleeping pills in 1944; she was 4 months pregnant. There is a much-circulated, but undocumented story that she had dressed in her best outfit for the suicide and took her pills, washing them down with alcohol. Getting sick to her stomach, she rushed to the bathroom, but tripped and fell, drowning in the toilet. In 1942 Virginia Woolf-"

"STOP!" I interrupt Heero's running diatribe of bizarre suicides, more than slightly disturbed. "Why the heck are you telling me this? Why do you even _know _all those things? That's borderline psychotic!" 

It's friggin' "Wonder Boys" come to life, that's what it is. Break out the red cowboy boots and put the dog's carcass in the trunk! We're going on a road trip!

"Is it bullshit?" he asks point-blank. He shifts in his bed, dragging his cast around so that it hangs over the side of the bed, sticking out like some huge, plaster fishing pier. .. or maybe there's a Tommy gun hidden inside, like the 1920s gangsters used to do with violin cases! Maybe he senses some kind of danger lurking in the hallway and he's preparing to flee or blast his way to safety! 

Oh, crap. I'm in the line of fire! 

Oh, crap. Heero is staring at me funny!

"What?!" I sputter, afraid that my death is imminent.

"Is it bullshit?" he repeats.

__

What?! I'm facing death straight in the face and he's talking about some dumb-ass game?! Has he no sanctity for life?! Has he no respect for those whom he sacrifices in order to preserve his own skanky skin?! Selfish bastard! 

"How the heck should I know?" I snap, irate. "I don't exactly sit around memorizing the obituaries!" Just the thesaurus...

"Maybe you should," he tells me gravely. "You could learn something."

"L-learn something?" I squeak. Oh, crap. I really _am _going to die. Speculation is one thing, but this...!

"About death. And honor. And sacrifice."

Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. Was that a veiled death threat? Was that an implied "I-plan-to-use-you-to-block-the-path-of-whatever-psycho-tries-to-kill-me"?! Or was it a "I-fully-expect-you-to-throw-your-puny-self-in-front-of-said-murderer-and-save-my-sorry-life"?! Or is Heero just some run of the mill necrophiliac who gets his jollies off of reading about corpses?

Or am I just reading waaay too much into this?

No! A big N followed by a little o, No! Can't take that chance!

"Get away from me, you freak!" I yelp. "There's no bloody way I'm going to be your human shield! There will be no Operation: Get Behind the Duo!" I shove my tray to the side and it rolls into the wall with a thud, showering Scrabble pieces all over the floor like some kind of zany pinata. Levering myself out of bed, I grab my black bag from beneath my pillow, heave myself to my feet and stagger in the general direction of the door, trying to keep one eye on Heero the entire time. "Make no sudden moves!" I warn him. "I don't want to hurt you! I'm armed!" Well, actually all I have is Drippy, but if you can kill a man using only a spoon, an IV stand should accomplish the job just as sufficiently.

I should have left this room a long time ago. Then again, history teaches us that men only behave wisely once they have exhausted all other alternatives. 

"What are you talking about?" Heero looks mildly concerned. Damn, but he's a good actor. I can almost believe that he has no idea what I'm talking about. Maybe he really doesn't know anything about a murder. Maybe it is just a rumor. Maybe I'm completely overreacting. He does seem rather normal, except for the preoccupation with death and war and...

Wait a minute. 

Maybe he's one of those freaking insane killers, the kind who have split personalities! Yeah, the ones whose aggressive/murderous side just springs forth all of a sudden, like Diana from Zeus' head! They seem all normal and cool and nice and meeker than a sheep on Ritalin, and then the next thing you know they're planting an axe in your head and running off with the new Saucony's you just picked up at Foot Locker on sale for $89.99! I'll bet that's what he is. I'll bet that's why all those cops are around. He's not being watched to make sure no one murders him! He's being watched to make sure he doesn't murder anyone!

And I've been sharing a room with him. I hope phonomania [3] can't be transmitted by osmosis.

"Duo," Heero sounds very concerned now. I would, too, if someone had just blown _my _cover all to hell! "Are you okay?"

Oh, yeah, I'm just peachy... you freaking psycho! If this were an after school special, you'd be paying the price for your little deceit! McGruff would take a bite out of crime, straight from your ass! Screw Yuy, indeed!

Please don't kill me, Screwy Yuy...

"Eh-heh-heh," I laugh nervously. "Doctor's orders! I'm supposed to stay in bed and drink lots of fluids. Well, I've been in bed and I'd like more fluids, so I'll just be going to see the nurse now-" 

Actions most certainly lie louder than words. 

"Why don't you just use the call button?" he asks. He looks like he's trying to climb out of bed. He looks like he's succeeding. I wonder how much blunt trauma he could do if he swung his arm cast at my head.

"No need, no need," I hurriedly assure him. "One, I'm almost there. Two... well, I don't have a two. Oh, look, I'm at the door now. Bye-bye!"

I yank open the door and stagger out into the hallway. The lights are brighter than in our room and I blink owlishly, blinded for a moment. Tracy looks up from the nurses' station and smiles.

"Feeling up to a walk today?" she chirps happily, her blond ponytail swinging as she tilts her head to one side. "Or did you just get sick of staying in that room all day and need a change of scene?"

You have no clue, lady. 

I want to tell her the truth. I want to tell her to have Heero carted off to the psych ward. I want to grab the nearest telephone, call McGuyver, and demand he come down here and solve this mystery once and for all. I want to call the nearest Roommate Dealership and ask if I can trade Heero in for a more stable model. 

"Can I have a hug?" I instead ask breathlessly, shutting the door firmly behind me. Closing it will render Heero powerless against me. How, I don't know. It just will. "I feel needy."

Tracy laughs, but immediately gets up. "Of course, hon. What's wrong?"

"Nothing really," I say, leaning gratefully into her arms. "But do you happen to know where Quatre is?"

"He's assisting with another patient," a new voice suddenly interjects. I jerk my head around and upwards to see Detective Barton standing a few feet away, his face as blank as ever. "Perhaps my company would suffice for the time being?"

Well, he sure ain't McGuyver, but I suppose an anorexic-appearing, ex-French-model-turned-law-enforcer is better than nothing.

"Yeah, sure, why not," I shrug, pulling away from Tracy. She rubs the stubble that passes for my hair and returns to her chair, leaving me standing in the hallway with the man formerly known as Creepy.

--We interrupt this program to increase dramatic tension.--

****

-end chapter ten-

Footnotes

[1] This sounds really politically incorrect -and maybe it is- but I swear it was actually in my psychology textbook. It's the term used to describe someone who's IQ is on the brink of being mentally handicapped.

[2] When I read this over, this line cracked me up. All Harpies are _female_. I think my muse is trying to say something about Heero!

[3] phonomania: pathological tendency to commit murder.

Zooie-Notes

Well, that was a really mean place to cut this off. However, I don't know when I'm going to have time to continue this. This next week is just insane. Better something than nothing, right? 

Have you ever played Bullshit? It's fun. It's based on a very simple premise. Namely, that while most people can't tell you their own blood type, every last one of them will know the theme song from "the Beverly Hillbillies."

No degree of dullness can safeguard a work against the 

determination of critics to find it fascinating. -- Harold Rosenberg


	12. Chapter Eleven: Wait what!

Sorry it took so long! 

If I thanked everyone personally, it would be longer than the fic, so let me just say one big collective THANK YOU to everyone! Oh, and ::hugs:: to everyone who wished me better. ^_^ You guys are great.

****

Cat's Paw 11

"Yeah, sure, why not," I say to Barton, straightening my posture and generally just doing my best to look less like a rickety coat stand. Would not do to look like a cranky brat in front of the nice Mr. Police Man. No, it would not. I dredge up a crooked grin and try to meet his eyes... or rather, eye. "Thanks for offering," I smoothly continue. Unfortunately, my voice sounds like Bert from "Sesame Street," only with throat cancer. Oh, yeah. Way to not sound decrepit, Enrico Suave! 

Tracy chirps up from her post behind the nurses' station, generously tossing her unsolicited two cents into the pot. "Yes, it's very kind of you to take such an unprecedented interest in a patient! You're a very compassionate man!" she croons, looking like she either wants to jump his bones or hug him within an inch of his life. 

I have never felt my IQ drop before, but every time a woman squeals over a guy I can feel myself creeping ever closer to Cro-Magnon man. I get this uncontrollable urge to whip out a wooden spear and start impaling things, while screaming in guttural monosyllables. 

Just point me to the nearest woolly mammoth. 

Despite my devolution back into the Stone Age, I have not regressed so greatly that I fail to notice when something flickers briefly in Barton's eye as Tracy speaks. Embarrassment? Surprise? Denial? Guilt? Before I can identify the emotion, it's gone, more fleeting than Michael Jackson's normality. Barton's cool exterior is once more firmly shellacked into place. He shoves his hands in his coat pockets and looks down at his feet momentarily, then seems to sense I'm looking at him. Slowly he turns his gaze to my face. He studies me intently, pinning me in place with his stare. He does not blink.

I find my eyes caught in his. Time grinds to a halt. For one fragile instant, one speck of ephemeral infinity, his eyes are all I know. The universe stops. A thousand questions bubble to the surface of my mind. What brought me here today? Am I lonely? Why does peanut butter taste better warm? What have I done with my life? Who... am... I? Then abruptly I am _very _self-conscious and have to resist the urge to implode. I can tell without looking _precisely _where all my limbs are. How my left knee is slightly bent and I'm hunched slightly to one side. How the coarse fabric of my black bag feels against my clutching fingers. How my pajama bottoms are slipping dangerously low on one hip. The cold of the tile floor seeps surreptitiously through my slipper socks, chilling my feet, as I stand trapped in his muddy green eyes. Then he blinks and the crystalline eternity is shattered. 

Beam me up, Scotty. There is far too much intelligent life on this planet.

"Sometimes," Barton says softly, turning his head to face Tracy, "a person has questions they need answered. How can you find your answers if you don't have a chance to ask your questions?" 

I stare at him for a few seconds more, waiting for him to continue, before I realize he's done speaking. For some reason I'm reminded of that guy in the Pink Floyd song "Another Brick in the Wall" who kept saying "If you don't eat your meat, you can't have any pudding...how can you have any pudding if you don't eat your meat?" I wonder if Barton is old enough to have voiced that part?

I'm beginning to get paranoid about standing so close to my door. I'm a scant ten feet away from it. What if Heero suddenly springs forth from the bowels of the room, wielding a makeshift weapon composed of a sharpened curtain rod and warped bedpan, intent upon achieving my termination? I'd be screwed. My list of personal skills most certainly does not include the ability to elude homicidal blitzes. Even Cro-Magnon man had problems dodging spear attacks!

I suddenly have a savory mental image of my bloody corpse lying sprawled on the pristine floor of the hallway, mutilated limbs all akimbo, Drippy lying prone by my side, leaking pitifully. I would look artfully deceased, like Kevin Spacey in "American Beauty," a life cut tragically short just as I was finally beginning to live. And much like Kevin Spacey's death, its irony would be twofold. A leukemia patient survives a dangerous bone marrow transplant only to be viciously bludgeoned to death within the very walls of the hospital that saved his life! Oh, what a sardonic twist of fate! The newspapers would rejoice in glee! There would be a sudden rush at Barnes and Noble for thesauruses as journalists realize they need synonyms for "tragic."

Ill-starred. Hapless. Harrowing. Lamentable. Cataclysmic. Dire. Woeful. Wretched. A real bummer. So shocking it could become a made for TV movie. "Duo Maxwell and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad death." It could costar Heero Yuy as the vicious, vengeful, insane, very mad killer. Ratings would be through the roof. I would become a household name. 

My knees feel weak at the very idea. Or maybe that's due more to the prospect of my demise.

I must have made some kind of noise or moved or something because suddenly both Barton and Tracy glance at me, in curiosity and concern, respectively. "Do you need to sit down, Duo?" Tracy asks, all mother-like. She would do Mrs. Brady proud.

"Yes, ma'am. That's probably a good idea," I answer somewhat feebly. 

"Ma'am?" Tracy raises an eyebrow. "No Vaudeville homage? [1] You must be feeling out of it. Do you need help getting back to bed?" 

Bed. Bed in room. Heero in room. Can't sleep. Heero'll eat me. 

I must have paled at the suggestion, for Tracy has risen and is moving towards me with a frown. "That's it, mister. Back to bed with you. Come on."

Going back to bed makes about as much sense as a dissertation about world peace written by a chipmunk on speed. I cringe inwardly as she takes hold of my arm and begins to propel me back towards my room.

"Naw, that's okay," I refuse hastily, dragging my feet and trying to resist. "I kind of would rather take a breather. Getting kind of stuffy in there, you know?" Tracy ignores me. I shoot a desperate look at the detective. Surely _he'll _be on my side!

__

That look in Barton's eyes is most definitely amusement. "Actually, nurse," he smoothly interjects, "I'd rather speak to Duo in private if you wouldn't mind."

"Do you feel up to it, Duo?" Tracy asks, retaining her grasp on my arm, but thankfully no longer moving. 

"No problem," I reassure her, pulling free and taking a few steps towards Barton. "We'll be just fine."

"Is there some place where we can speak without interruption?" Barton pointedly asks Tracy. She looks back and forth between the two of us several times, appearing to be undecided, then finally nods.

"If you would follow me, please," she directs, taking hold of my arm once more. I try to protest, but she quells my objections with a frown. I meekly allow her to help me down the hall.

Tracy sees us safely to one of the floor's lounges, a small room that the doctors use when they need to speak with parents in private. Though they're quite cozily furnished to resemble miniature living rooms, complete with the all-American TV set, they've gotten kind of a bad stigma because of their purpose. I mean, how often do you think you get good news in a private conference with your kid's doctor? Anyway, the lounges are seldom occupied, so if you don't mind hanging around in a Cerberus [2] Chamber, you're pretty much guaranteed some time alone. And looking at Detective Barton most definitely left one with the impression that he enjoyed being alone.

"So," I say, sinking into an arm chair, "to what do we owe the honor of your presence on this swell morning?" I leave Drippy standing next to me, lay my black bag across my lap, and smile. Now that I've got some distance between Heero and I, not to mention some armed backup, I'm feeling a little more chipper. I just try not to think about the fact that I have to go back to the room, eventually.

Barton slouches down onto the coffee table, bent forward with his elbows resting on his knees. With his long, gangly arms and legs, the posture makes him look like some kind of mutated praying mantis, sans the antennas. "I don't think you're supposed to sit there, man," I tell him amusedly. 

He tips his head slightly forward and to one side. Yep. Definitely a praying mantis. Well, so long as he doesn't plan on mating with me and then eating me, I guess I'm cool with that. It's sure better than being in the same room with a psychotic murderer. As creepy as Barton is, I'm pretty confident he won't be adding murder to his rap sheet any time soon. Anyone who thinks he would seriously needs to empty their drool cup.

We sit for a while, him on his table and I in my chair. We settle right down for an afternoon stare. We sit and we wait and we neither do blink. No one wants to break the silence, I think.

Yeah, I liked my green eggs and ham as a kid. And my cat wore hats, too. Pop didn't much like it when I hopped on him, though. Said it gave him heartburn.

"So," I try again. "why are you here?"

"I don't know," he responds quietly. "Why are we here?"

"No, no," I frown. "Why are _you _here?" As in, single person. One. Not two. Not us. Not we. Just you.

Barton arches his visible eyebrow upwards, his eye widening slightly. "I am here because you appeared upset. Did something happen that you wished to speak of?" 

Can I just beat my head against the wall now? "_Fine_," I gripe. "I get the point. You ask the questions. Not me. Am I right?"

"That was generally the idea," Barton says with a shadow of a smile. "I've heard you have a tendency to be rather... obstreperous."

Oh ho ho. Pulling out the fifty-dollar words, now are we? Apparently he's taken Intro to Insults 101: if you insult them with words they don't understand, they can't become offended. Well, two can play that game. I didn't attend Junior High School for nothing. "Yeah, I supposed I can be rather fatuous," I allow with a shrug. "Better puerile than unctuous, though."

If Barton really were a praying mantis, his head would be upside-down by now. As it is, it's tilted to a near impossible angle, as though he's Gumby or Stretch Armstrong or that weird bendy dude in the Fantastic Four. Completely without bones. "That's a matter of opinion," he says, leaving doubt in my mind as to whether he actually understood what I said. "But moving on, you seemed rather agitated in the hallway before. Was there something you needed Quatre specifically for or is this a matter I can help to resolve?"

Talk about being handed your answers on a platter.

"Well, first off," I answer, "you can cut out the Saints-r-Us act. I know you're not here out of the goodness of your shining little heart." Though Barton tenses, probably due to my marked lack of respect (the nuns would be so disappointed), he does not deny my accusation. Emboldened, I continue. "Secondly, you can call off the goon patrol. I'm not in any shape to threaten anyone."

"Goon patrol?" He sounds puzzled.

"You know, the uniformed ape who followed us down the hall? The guy who's lurking right outside the door? I can see his shadow on the wall..."

Barton spins around on the table just in time to see a sheepish officer step into the room. The guy is enormously tall, with hair worthy of a Ken doll and some weird-ass V-shaped eyebrows. Chief Sitting Bull would take one look at him and say, "speaks with forked tongue." He stops just inside the door, looking vaguely awkward in his own skin, as if he's not quite certain how to control his own limbs. No kinesthetic sense. Coupled with a pair of Rollerblades, this guy would be a natural disaster unto himself. He could probably take out an entire city block in a matter of minutes.

"S-sorry, sir," he stutters out. "But, uh, there was a call and... I, uh... Well, you see, sir..." 

"Just spit it out, Treize," Barton interrupts, clearly exasperated. I can easily understand why. Listening to this guy is like listening to a sedated Andre the Giant.

"Uh, I d-doubt... I'm not sure... Umm... I don't think I can tell you in front of the boy, sir," he manages to convey. It is plainly clear that Treize lacks the ability to communicate with the rest of the world. He is a prime example of why this city has such a high rate of crime. He would be cool to get drunk and tie behind your car or something, but not to have in an authority position.

"Fine," Barton spits out. He stands and crosses to Treize's side. "Stay right there," he orders me before leaving the room, Treize nearly tripping over his own feet in his eagerness to follow. He shuts the door behind them.

Wowee. The fun never ends here at the Winner Medical Center. I feel kind of bad for Barton, having to put up with morons like that all day. I can almost forgive him his eerie aura. It's probably a simple mental defense against the rejects he's surrounded with.

While Barton is gone, I take a moment to organize my thoughts. There are so many things I want to ask him, so much information I want to wring from his scrawny body. First and foremost on my mind is Heero's mental stability. If I'm likely to be slaughtered in the near future, I'd like at least a few days to make arrangements. Write a will, and so forth.

I leave my gift baskets and all their contents to the patients in the WMC children's ward, to be distributed as the hospital staff sees fit. I leave... well, that's pretty much it. Nice to know my entire existence can be summed up in a few pounds of wicker.

Once my first question is answered, I'd then like to know... well, actually, the rest of my questions really depend on the answer to the first. If he's stable, I want to know why the cops are here. If he's not, I want to know why _he's _here.

I'd _also _like to know the answer to life, the universe, and everything. I'm just not buying that whole, "it's forty-two" thing.

"I apologize for the disruption," Barton says, reentering the room. "Treize is not the most qualified of officers. His parents bought his place on the squad." He sits on the table once more, looking exasperated. "That guy couldn't teach a horny dog to jump," he complains, then looks slightly startled. I'm guessing he wasn't planning on saying that last part.

"About as qualified as a squirrel with a magic flute, huh?" I snicker. 

Barton looks confused. "Come again?"

Oh, _right_. That was one of those thoughts that I should keep to myself. "Never mind." I shake my head. Just keeping things even at the Random Exclamation Picnic.

"So, where were we?"

"You were just about to tell me if my roommate was a psychopath or not."

"Was I?"

"Yep. And then you were going to explain why you've suddenly taken up residence in our humble abode."

"Why would you think Heero Yuy is a psychopath?"

"Oh, come on! Have you seen this boy?! Normal people just don't go around acting like he does! But you already knew that he's abnormal... why else would you be here?"

"What makes you think I'm here because of something Heero has done?"

"Well, I doubt you're here because Tracy's been eating all the cherry Jolly Ranchers in the candy dish -although she has."

"Is that why only the watermelon ones were left?"

"Yeah... You noticed, too?"

"Yeah... but we're straying a bit from the topic."

"Okay, sure. What were we... Oh, right. Well, you've got to be here because of Heero because one, you showed up at the same time. Two, you're stalking his room. Three, you follow him around. Four, he's a psychopathic killer."

"I repeat, why do you think he's a psychopathic killer?" 

"He's just weird. He's obsessed with war and dying, he keeps making these vaguely threatening comments, and I think I've caught a couple of veiled death threats."

"Death threats?"

"He told me I should read obituaries to educate myself."

"That's hardly a death threat."

"Sure it is! Think about it. What else would you learn from an obituary besides about death?"

"You'd learn about death. And honor. And sacrifice."

"Not you, too..."

"Pardon?"

"That's exactly what Heero said."

"Isn't that odd."

"It's creepy, that's what it is..... Okay, well, what about just before? I was leaving the room and he tried to come after me."

"Perhaps he was concerned for your well-being."

"Concerned, my ass! He was trying to kill me! You should have seen the malicious glean in his eyes. I can still hear it now: Step, draaag. Step, draaag. Step, draaag."

"This is hardly incriminating evidence."

"You guys don't think anything is incriminating evidence. For Christ's sake, he would have to kill me before you'd do anything!"

"We act appropriately in a given situation. Did you have anything else you wished to report?"

"Yeah, actually. A little incident that happened last night comes to mind."

"The one involving Miss Schbeiker and Miss Peacecraft?"

"What? How do you..."

"The head nurse informed me of the, ah, _disturbance _last night. One of my officers heard the commotion and was alarmed. I was assured, as was he, that there was nothing to be concerned with. The nurse explained that your anxiety was caused by nothing but a dream."

"Excuse me? A dream? Oh, no. I so did not dream that up. I may be twisted, but I'm not _that _sick. Hilde _was _there and she _did _tell me that Heero--"

"I repeat. I was told it was a dream. It is completely forgivable that you are so confused. I understand that certain drugs you're taking can make reality seem a bit skewed. This is probably what happened last night."  


"No! Stop patronizing me, dammit! I'm not making it up! Stop lying to me!"

"Please calm down. I'm not trying to agitate you. In fact, I'm concerned that no one has spoken with you about this earlier. Does this often happen--"

"I don't make a habit of hallucinating, if that's what you're asking. And I don't need to talk to anyone. What I need is someone to tell me the fucking truth once in a while!"

"What can I do to convince you what I'm saying is true?"

"Nothing. There isn't a damn thing you can do."

"What if I contacted Miss Schbeiker and allowed you to speak with her? Would you believe it was a dream if it came from her?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I would."

"Fine." Barton reaches into his pocket and draws out his cell phone. 

"You're not supposed to use those in the hospital, asshole." 

He ignores me. "Hello? Information? ... The office of Peacecraft and Schbeiker, please... Thank you... Could I speak with Miss Schbeiker, please? ... Detective Trowa Barton... Yes, I'll hold... Miss Schbeiker? This is Trowa Barton speaking... I'm fine. How are you? ... Ah, actually, there is something you can help me with. Would you mind speaking with Duo for a minute? He's a bit... confused... about last night... Yes, here he is."

Barton hands me the phone. I take it suspiciously. "Hilde?"

"Hi, Duo! Long time no talk! I don't think we've ever spoke on the phone before."

"Yeah, that's nice, Hilde. Uh, listen. You know last night? Your visit? You, ah, you didn't leave right away, did you?"

"No, we stayed for quite some time. You fell asleep before we left. Looked pretty wiped out, too. Don't you remember?"

"No, wait. I mean, did you come back? After you left? Did you forget your purse and come back to get it? And then tell me that Heero's dad was murdered?"

There's a long pause. "No, Duo. I did forget my purse, but you were sound asleep when I went to fetch it."

"You didn't... you didn't talk to me?"

"No, hon. I just got my purse and left. You both looked so tired, I didn't want to disturb you."

"So you didn't warn me to stay away from Heero? He's... he's not a murderer?"

Another long pause, accompanied by a little laugh. "What kind of drugs do they have you on, kiddo? I've got clients who would pay big bucks for shit like that."

"O-okay. I, uhh... Thanks, Hilde. I'll... I'll see you in a couple weeks?"

"If you haven't burnt the hospital down yet, you will!"

"Alright. Bye, Hilde. Say hi to Relena for me, okay?"

"Can do! Bye!"

I hand the phone back to Barton. I have never felt this idiotic in my life. My Stupid card has been more than validated. It's been stamped so many times it's frigging tattered. 

Honesty is the best policy, but idiocy is a better defense. I am good at being inarticulately abstracted for the same reason that midgets are good at being short.

"Feeling better?" Barton asks with a little smile.

"Feeling moronic," I admit. "I feel like a complete idiot. Where the hell did I get off thinking all that stuff?"

"You merely overreacted. It's a common problem when police are involved."

"Say... why _are _you guys here? You never did answer that."

Barton appears pained and doesn't answer for a moment. He's thinking so hard, it looks like it hurts. He seems to reach some kind of internal decision and leans forward, lowering his voice. "Although I shouldn't say anything... perhaps it would be for the best. We didn't expect the situation to become so convoluted. At this point, keeping it a secret would probably be more detrimental than airing the truth. This cannot leave this room, however. I need your word on that."

"Sure, sure! No problem."

"Alright... Do you know the name Sano Yuy?"

"He's that mega-billionaire software giant. One of the richest men in the world. Practically every computer in existence uses his products."

"Correct. Were you aware he had a son?"

"I knew he had a kid, but..."

"A son named Heero Yuy?"

"No, shit?"

"A son named Heero Yuy who has a history of running away from home?"

"Really?"

"Who's known to be a pathological liar?"

"You're kidding."

"You didn't hear it from me. I just asked if you _knew_. I never actually _said _anything."

"So what happened? He ran away from home and got in a car accident? Why hasn't his dad shown up to reclaim him? Why is everyone going along with this?"

He sighs. "Technically, we don't know it's him. He had a fake ID on him -same name, different information. The man in the car with him, Odin Lowe, didn't die on impact. Lowe's actually still alive, but at a different hospital. He told us this bullshit story about being Heero's adoptive father. When Heero woke up, he told us the same song and dance story about being an orphan and we just decided to go along with it for the time being. Easier than arguing with him, you know?"

"So everything I've been told up until now is a lie. Sheesh. Were you ever going to tell his father where he is? How did you know it was him?"

"Oh, his father knows. Turns out that he's good friends with Mr. Winner and trusts him to do what's best. Winner is the one who IDed Heero. They're both hoping that they can scare Heero back onto the right path."

"But wait a minute. When Heero first woke up--"

"We confronted him with his story hoping to force a confession. We did not expect him to have such presence of mind so soon after regaining consciousness. The boy is something of an enigma."

"This explanation is even crazier than my story. You realize that, right?"

He shrugs. "The truth is often stranger than fiction."

"I don't know if I should feel relieved that Heero's not a murderer or freaked out that I'm rooming with a billionaire."

"I think the best thing you could do right now is just be Heero's friend. That's what he really needs right now."

And on that warm and fuzzy note, Quatre enters the room. He's wearing his oh-so-attractive smock with the kittens on it. I sure hope one of his sisters gave it to him as a joke.

"Playing nice, you two?" he asks, flopping down into one of the arm chairs. "Or do I have to get the tazer?"

"I was just finishing up," Barton proclaims, rising from the table. "Have I helped cleared things up for you, Duo?"

"Yeah, sure. You were a super big help."

"Then I'll be going."

"You sure you don't want to stick around for a while?" Quatre asks with a grin. "We may wear shower curtain shirts, but we hospital folk can be pretty fun."

"I have business I must attend to," is the chilly response. Barton pivots on his heel and walks out of the room.

Quatre stares after him. "A fire hydrant is more conversant than that man," he sighs. 

"Yeah, he's bundles of joy. So where ya been, Q? I haven't seen you around lately."

Quate turns on me with his megawatt smile, the one that could light the entire world for all eternity. It's so neon I swear it needs batteries. Its presence indicates one of two things: either Quatre got lucky or I'm about to be treated to a dose of hearty sarcasm. "Oh! Well, you know Dr. S? I've been following him on his rounds lately. He's just great. I'm thinking of asking him to be my mentor. He has this a_maz_ing way with kids. Plus he looks like Jesus. Who wouldn't trust the Savior?" 

"Dr S?" I wince. "He doesn't look like Jesus. He looks like Yanni, if Yanni were less attractive and had no musical talent!"

"Now, now. I thought he played the Kazoo very well at the Christmas party."

"If that man pulled his pants up any higher he'd disappear into them!"

"Well, since his mother passed on, he's had to dress himself."

"And it's hard to pay attention when he talks because of that huge growth on his arm. What's he trying to do? Clone himself?"

"It's a mole, Duo. And since when do breaks in a man's DNA code make him less of a person?"

"All I'm saying is he's not exactly the best person to be taking as a role model. The only area he should be mentoring in is Random Amounts of Arbitrary Vagueness."

"Did somebody get his jockstrap all in a knot? What's wrong, asshole? Why're you in such a pissy mood?"

"Well, you see, Q. I've discovered that I have multiple personality disorder. The problem is, one of my personalities is paranoid and the other is out to get him."

"Explain."

So I do. I have never seen Quatre laugh so hard. Turns out he knew the entire time.

****

-end chapter eleven-

Footnotes

[1] This is a reference to an old Vaudeville routine, in which an unusually well endowed girl in a skimpy nurse's outfit would appear on stage at a "doctor's" call. The resident baggy-pants comic would break out with a call of "Hellll-ooooo, NURSE!!!" which would cause the audience to collapse in hysterics. I'm not quite sure why. (PS: if you're into old school cartoons, you probably remember this line from "Animaniacs.")

[2] In Greek mythology, the three-headed dog who guards the gates to the Hades. He permits new spirits to enter the realm of the dead, but prevents any from leaving. (interestingly enough, he can be pacified with honey cakes!)

Blooper

__

"You have shot me with **sixty-five **rubberbands." I guess my trigger finger is itchier than I thought. Who am I kidding? It's damn near epileptic. "That woman gave you **150 **to start off with, so you have **85 **left. I'm willing to begin with a **ten **rubberband handicap." 

Okay. So we have 150 rubberbands. We subtract 65. That leaves 85 rubberbands. Now, the difference between 65 and 85 is... what? 20? That's right! And yet, I apparently thought it was 10. O_o Three semesters of advanced calculus? What three semesters of advanced calculus? *casually walks away, whistling* 

Zooie-notes

Lots of dialogue = quickly paced plot!

I **hate **this section and will probably come back and revise it at some point. For now, however, it will suffice. I want to end this sucker before finals!

Since the question has been asked several times, it's finally going to be addressed. Is this written from personal experience? The answer is, no. This writer has thankfully never had cancer, nor has this writer witnessed a family member or friend's struggle with said illness --although she did spend all last summer nursing her mother after she had a melanoma spot removed. (Mom's okay now. ^_^ )


	13. Chapter Twelve: Fever Frenzy

File: Cat's Paw

Case Number: 00012

Agent: Zooie

Objective: Update

Status: Complete

Opposition Encountered:

1. Finals. Agent was overwhelmed with a barrage of final projects and exams. She controlled the situation by administering huge amounts of caffeine to her bloodstream and consuming large amounts of ice cream. Exams and projects have been eliminated.

2. Illness. Agent became physically disabled by a severe cold and was confined to bed by MedTech. The application of relevant medications have brought the situation under control.

3. System malfunction. Agent's main operating system, a Compaq Laptop, suffered severe damage and its replacement was necessary. Agent is now equipped with a new HP Laptop and is once more operational. 

Agent Notes:

Acknowledgment is due to the following alllies: the Blind Seraphim, Ziza Aoki, Dark Peppermint, Mama Sama, Natea, Cally, Emily Hato (you dreamt about it?! wow! I'm really flattered!), fanny, Unknown Wisdom, Shaman Dani of the Flamingos, Albino Dragon, Severed Scythe, Shinigami, Atomic Blue, Ashuri Chan, Chibihotangel, Forever Duo's Girl, Goldenrat, Tarasaturn, Cha Shinegami, Tina, LB, Soulsearcher Ironforge, White Destiny, Keitorin, firedraygon97, ace, makya, neko-chan, si-poo, and celena_albatou.

  


Cat's Paw 12

  


I can do this. I _can_. It's no big deal. Really, it's not. It's not like I'm performing brain surgery, or something. Heck, people do this every day, probably more than once! Some people make a living doing this! In fact, millions of people are most likely doing it right now, even as I sit here thinking. They're just doing it, getting it over with, and moving on with their lives. They're probably not even thinking twice about it. Well, maybe a few of them are, but for the most part it's probably as natural as breathing. And if it comes that easy to _them_, how hard could it be for _me _to do it?

  


Very.

  


Okay. I'm strong. I'm calm. I'm collected. I'm capable. I'm confidant. I can do this. No big deal.

  


Very big deal. Very, _very _big deal.

  


Deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. Hee hee hoo. Hee hee hoo. 

  


Oh, great. Now I'm doing Lamaze. 

  


This is just getting ridiculous! Maybe if I grasp my ears firmly and pull, I will be able to remove my head from my ass. I should just do it already and put myself out of my misery!

  


Okay. Here I go. Yep. Right now. I'm going in. Watch as I go! See, I'm going. 

  


Okay, I'm going. Please keep all arms and legs inside the vehicle and place your trays in the full upright position. 

  


"Yo, Heero! I want to apologize." There. It's done. I'm still breathing. I'm still alive. What was I worried about? It's all good. No harm done. Limbs are all intact. Movement is still possible. I have survived. 

  


Heero looks up from his Game Boy. Relena apparently put a really nice gift basket together for him, the lucky bastard. He's been clicking away at the thing ever since I returned to the room and seems to have the same one-handed success that he did with the Game Cube. As I've fought battles with my conscience and nerves, he's apparently been waging war against some virtual enemy force, probably from outer space (they always are). My apology has yanked him back to this world rather abruptly and he looks a little confused, his eyebrows lowering slightly. Mostly, though, he just looks perturbed that his game was interrupted. "Apologize for what?" he asks, obviously impatient to get back to his game of "Wing Commander." 

  


"For before. You know." When I was acting like a total ass. Or did you not notice? I could only be so lucky.

  


"No, tell me." Does he honestly not remember or is he just making me suffer? I wish I could tell, but my Sarcasm Radar is most defiantly off-line. We are experiencing technical difficulties.

  


"For acting all... weird," I clarify weakly. Weird. That's a mild way of putting it. Psycho would be more accurate.

  


Heero shrugs. "I merely assumed that was normal behavior for you."

  


"Heh. Very funny." I frown, a little angry. Here I am apologizing all nice and contrite and he starts making fun of me. I don't know where _he _was raised, but I know _I_ was taught to graciously accept apologies when they are offered!

  


"I was serious." He stares at me with his creepy, blue eyes and smirks. I get that sick-wobbly feeling that arises in the pit of your stomach when you realize you've just made a colossal ass out of yourself. The one that makes you realize that your inferiority complex is fully justified.

  


"Oh," I manage softly. Have I been acting that paranoid lately? Suddenly embarrassed and self-conscious, I look down at my hands, examining them intently. I've always hated my hands. Sister Mary Willis used to call them pianist hands. I think she just wanted a free organist for the church. I've always thought they were ugly, myself. They just don't look like guys' hands. Guys' hands are supposed to be strong, hard, and capable. They're not supposed to be thin with stupid long, girly fingers and bony knuckles and jagged fingernails... although I suppose those would look better if I just stopped biting them. Guys' hands are supposed to look like they can do things _besides _snap like twigs. Like they could build a house or fix a car or snap someone's neck... like Heero's hands. Heero has guy-looking hands. Heero has hands that look like they could maul an ox. The kind of hands that built our nation! 

  


"DUO."

  


Oh, Heero's talking. And apparently has been for some time. Well, I always get lost in thought. It's such unfamiliar territory. 

  


"Yeah?" I look up reluctantly, still embarrassed. I don't quite meet his eyes, choosing instead to stare somewhat over his head. Hello, Mr. Wall. You're looking mighty yellow today.

"Duo. I was _joking_."

  


"OH! Ha. Ha. Heh..." I chuckle weakly. Yeah, I have a bit of a speech impediment. It's called my _foot_. "Sure, man. I'm a bit off today."

  


"Did they change you meds or something?" [1] he asks. I decide his monotone sounds more curious than concerned. Kind of like when someone's pet dies. No one ever really cares how the kid feels about it; they just want to know if poor old Rover got run down by a car. Guts are so much more interesting than tears. Who wants to hand out Kleenex when there's spleens to be seen?!

"Ah, no. I think I'm just overtired from all the excitement yesterday. I mean, two visitors at once. Wow. That's my quota for like, the month!" Literally.

  


"If you're tired, you should sleep."

  


Thank you, Captain Obvious. "Yeah, I think I will." 

  


And that is that. He goes back to his game and I lay down to rest. I wish I could say that that went well. Maybe it's just my perfectionist attitude, but it really didn't make my top ten list of Most Riveting Recent Conversations. Hell, even _Drippy _made number six! It's a sad day when inanimate objects are more entertaining than real, live human beings.

  


Well, at least I can scratch the apology off my To Do list. Unfortunately, the next task is even more daunting: Make friends. 

  


Dang. This is going to be a bit of a challenge. I don't really have much experience with making friends. At least with people. Leave me alone at a yard sale and I'll have a dozen friends in under twenty minutes, all for less than five dollars. Put me at a party and all five dollars would get me is a spiked glass of punch. 

  


Shoot. When I dredge up my mental database of acquaintances and companions, the result is quite sadly lacking. More than half of them are imaginary and the rest are at least ten years older than me. I may not want to admit it, but I think it's time I faced facts. I have all the charisma of a rancid bag of dead guinea pigs. I am uninteresting. I am offensive. I grate on people's nerves. And furthermore, I am reminiscent of a urine sample. I should just cut my losses and join a freak show. I would probably be the main attraction because I am so desperate for a friend that I'd tell my deepest secrets to a half-empty can of Spam.

  
  


Nothing says friendship like animal by-products. 

  


But, wait! They say that you can't befriend anyone if you don't first befriend yourself! I need some confidence, here! I need some ego-boosting action! Where's Sucky?! There's nothing like a good come on to make you feel important! 

  


Oh, crap. Sucky's now dating the trash compactor. Damned cheatin' bastard! Well, who needs that hormone-riddled loser anyway? I'm independent! I can do this alone! I'll show them! I'll show them all!

  


Show them my jarring mental instability, perhaps.

Well, let's see. Why would anyone want to be friends with me? Ummmm... I have clear skin? I wash regularly? I get free medical care? Hey, in today's world, that makes me a pretty valuable connection! 

  


Shoot. This isn't working. Think, Duo. Think. Think back to elementary school. How did you make friends then...? 

  


Somehow I doubt Heero would be impressed if I ate a bottle of Elmer's Glue. [2]

  


Okay, scratch that. 

  


God, why am I such a loser? Why am I laying here, actually trying to logically deduce how to make a friend? Friends are supposed to just happen. They're not supposed to be the result of some pre-conceived plan. For goodness sakes, I'm like Antony in "Julius Caesar," pretending to befriend the conspirators so I can speak at Caesar's funeral and win popular public support so I can be elected leader of Rome... except I'm not running for public office or befriending Heero to serve my own needs. AND I'm not Italian... I don't think.

  


Wow. There's a thought. Am I Italian? What nationality am I? Where were my ancestors from? I wonder if Heero and I could possibly be distant cousins or something. Aren't cousins supposed to be friends automatically? Maybe I don't need to make friends with him. Maybe we already _are _friends and it's just that neither of us knows it. Maybe all I have to do is sit up, roll over, and go, "yo, man!How's life been treatin' ya in that neck of the room?" and he'd laugh and tell me to stop being stupid and we'd throw stuff at each other and... and...

  


And there's no time like the present.

  


"YO, HEERO! How's life been treatin' ya in that neck of the room?" I holler a bit more exuberantly than I had planned, thrusting myself upright in bed and turning in his direction with a huge grin on my face. He flinches and drops the Game Boy, half-twisting in the bed to face me with a startled expression. He looks like a startled prairie dog. I burst out laughing. "Jeez, dude. You look like a freakin' prairie dog!" I snicker.

  


"What is wrong with you?" he asks soberly, his speech devoid of all inflection. I'm pretty sure if_ I_ had asked that question, I would have said, "What is _wrong _with you?" See, I would have emphasized the "wrong" and that would have shown my irritation and indignation. When you say it flatly like Heero did, it sounds sincere, like you actually want to know if something is literally wrong with someone. And since I'm pretty sure Heero didn't appreciate being compared to a small rodent commonly hunted by people who like to see small, furry bodies explode in a spray of blood and guts, I think the inflection was implied.

  


Hey! Prairie dogs and I are kinda alike! We're both fairly social, but don't confine ourselves to the company of one specific companion. We both have big eyes and brown-tan hair. Well, I _normally _have brown-tan hair. And, wow! We both greet predators with bared teeth!! 

  


Hey! If _Heero _looks like a prairie dog and _I _look like a prairie dog, maybe we really are related! I wonder if we come from the same prairie dog town? 

  


Hee hee. I like to say prairie dog. And if you say it enough, it sounds like "Perry Duck." That can be Heero's new nickname!

  


"Hey, Perry Duck! How 'bout putting on the TV for a while, huh? It's time for 'Deep Sea Detectives!' They're going to talk about the Monitor today! The Monitor! As in, the Monitor and the Merrimack! From the Civil War! It was one of the most remarkable events in naval warfare! We totally have to watch it! It's a defining event of our country, Perry Duck! Our country! That you built with your own two hands!" I gesticulate wildly, curling my fingers into claw-like shapes and holding them above my head like a pro-wrestler or a rabid racoon. Heero shrinks back slightly.

  


"Perry Duck?" he asks, sounding confused. "Are you okay?"

  


"TV, P.D.! P.D., TV. Heh. It's a sentence of all acronyms! Cool! It's like our own personal jargon! Duo Perry Duck Jargon! DPDJ!"

  


"You should calm down. Your face is turning red."

  


"Red. Bed. Red bed! Our beds are red! Red are our beds! We rest our heads on our red beds! See?" I flop down into my pillow, bouncing slightly on the mattress, and immediately sit back up. "Whee!"

  


"I'm calling the nurse," he says blankly, locating the little plastic box and pushing the button that is red just like the bed. But button doesn't rhyme with red or bed. It's no fun. Just like Heero. Heero's no fun! He called the nurse! The nurses never let me have any fun!

  


"You suck, Perry Duck," I growl, suddenly angry. "You make my top ten list of Major Suckage. You suck more than a two dollar hooker!"

  


Now _Heero's _red. But there aren't red prairie dogs. But there _are _red-headed ducks! So Heero was lying. He's not a rodent. He's an aquatic bird. So we _aren't _related. 

  


But if we're not related, why is Heero standing so close to me? Only family or friends get that close and he's not family because he's a duck and he's not a friend because I haven't made him one yet and...

  


OWWWWWWWWW. OW OW OW OW OW OW OW OW OW OW.

  


Oh, wait. That didn't hurt. I have morphine! Yeah for morphine!

  


But it was scary. I've never been punched before. I wonder if my lip will swell up? Maybe I'll look like Donald Duck! And then Heero and I will be related after all! 

  


"Thanks, Heero!" I smile up at him from where I've fallen on the bed-that-is-red. "You're a good cousin."

  


He's leaning on the edge of my bed, where he probably fell after he belted me. Clumsy, clumsy, clumsy! I wonder if I should get him a helmet. Ohh! I could get a red, white, and blue one to commemorate all the effort he put into building this country with his strong man-hands!

  


"Thank God," he says, looking at something above my head. I try to twist around to see what it is, but my muscles aren't working too well. I'm feeling floppier than a fish! 

  


But I'm not a fish. I'm a duck. And ducks eat fish. Oh, crap! Is Heero gonna eat me?

  


"He's totally flipped out," Perry Duck continues.

  


"Oh, dear. I knew he looked kind of pale before." A voice sighs and a disembodied hand reaches out of nowhere.

  


"Nooo!! It's Thing! [3] Don't let Thing touch me, Perry Duck!" But he does and Thing is on my forehead and I shake my head to try and get Thing off. "No no no no no no no no no no no no no." And then Thing's gone and I close my eyes tight so I don't have to see if Thing comes back. "Nooooo."

  


"Are you okay to get back to bed, Heero? Our boy here is running a bit of a fever." It can talk?! But hands don't have mouths! How is this possible?! I want to open my eyes to see this phenomenon for myself, but my eyes don't want to work. They have glued themselves shut. Maybe the Elmer's Glue I ate in Kindergarten has come back to haunt me!

  


"I require no assistance. Is he going to be okay?"

  


"He'll be just fine. This is to be expected. We'll just run a few tests, make sure he doesn't have any infections, pump him full of medication, and he should be fine by morning. No worries. Say, did he fall and hit his head? Why is his lip split?"

  


"I... I hit him. He... angered me."

  


I lie in bed and let the words just float around me. I feel like I could wake up if I really want to, but I don't want to. I want to just lie here and be still and comfy and let my arms and legs melt into the blankets... except right there where they're bunched up and digging into my hip. I want to give my bones a chance to stop hurting like they've been doing since I came back from my talk with the Praying Mantis that is Barton. I want to stop worrying for a little while and let other people take care of things. 

But most of all, I want to be Heero's friend.

  


-end chapter twelve-

Footnotes

[1] Example med regimen (not necessarily the one Duo's on. I'm not a doctor, obviously.): Amlodopine (to prevent high blood pressure),G-CSF (IV - to stimulate the bone marrow to produce white cells), Penicillin (to prevent bacterial infections), Acyclovir (to prevent viral infections), Magnesium, Calcium, and Multivitamins.

[2] Just in case you were wondering, the consumption of Elmer's Glue does NOT cause cancer. I checked their webpage. 

  


[3] You know... Thing from "the Adams Family." (Thank you, Amalthea, for catching that!!)

  


Zooie-Notes

Ohh! I wrote angst! O_O


	14. Chapter Thirteen: Time Warp

Zooie: *pulls hair out* Why does this thing have to have so many freakin' layers?!

Muse: Well, it _is _a cold, harsh world out there... maybe it needs to bundle up?

  


Thank you to Mama sama, tina, amalthea (thanks again for catching the thing thing!), hakumei, EJ, LB, Ninakei, firedraygon97, atomicblue, serafina, makya, shingami, carocarla, the blind seraphim, tiger shinigami, the demonic duo, cally, white destiny, neko-chan, si-poo, celena_albatou, and emily hato. And I just want to say good luck to all of you who have finals!

  
  


Cat's Paw 13

  


Heero and I are sitting side-by-side on the edge of a bridge. Fog is swirling around us, obscuring any land from sight. The sun is glowing frostily behind a thick cover of clouds. The world is gray and still and the water below us makes no sound as it flows by. I'm freezing cold and yet am aware that Heero is sweating. He's holding a green and orange rabbit in his lap and is gently rubbing its fur. I laugh at the strange animal and rip another button off of Heero's shirt, throwing it into the water below. It doesn't sink, but instead floats on the surface, drifting away into the fog.

"Duo, have you ever realized any of your childhood dreams?" the rabbit asks in a quiet voice. It lifts its furry head and watches me with red eyes. I rip the last button off Heero's shirt and toss it forcefully away. 

  


"Uh, sure." What a asinine question. What is this? Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul? "When the nuns would brush my hair, I'd dream I didn't have any. I've got that one under control." I watch as the last button disappears and, on sudden inspiration, look to see if I have any buttons of my own that I can send down the river. However, I am wearing a black suit and I find myself reluctant to maim it.

  


"Forget I asked." The rabbit cringes from Heero's touch and jumps out of his lap, hopping off into the fog. Watching it go, I am filled with a sense of loss. Leaving Heero sitting complacently, I run after the rabbit. It hears me coming and leaps off the edge of the bridge. I follow it and find myself sitting in a hammock with the rabbit atop my head. It chews on my nose and strangely, I feel no pain. 

  


"I'm sorry, bunny," I sigh. "I didn't mean to be an ass. It's just... I dunno. I guess my biggest dream was that I'd be alive. Guess I'm doing alright so far."

  


Silence. The rabbit ceases its gnawing and crawls down over my chest to my waist, shrinking until it can fit into my jacket pocket. It huddles there, peering up over my body until it meets my eyes, a brightly colored splash against the dull wool of the suit.

  


"Well, are you going to tell me what you used to dream about?" I ask, watching as it wiggles its nose and twitches its ears.

  


"No," it says, and then it climbs out of my pocket, the motion causing the hammock to tip over. I fall down and into the mouth of a huge zipper, twisting my body so that I don't crush the rabbit when I land. I needn't have worried, though, for the rabbit sprouts wings and flies away.

  


I land with a thud on the bridge. Heero is still sitting at the edge, staring blankly off into the water. I hand him a broken plate and he turns to look at me. He takes the plate and throws it into the river, then shoves me after it. The last thing I hear before the water swallows me whole is the sound of the seconds ticking by on his wrist watch. 

  


~+~+~

  


_.....tickety tickety tickety tickety...._

  


If Heero keeps this up, he will wind up atrophying all his limbs but his button-pushing finger. The sound of the clicking Game Boy is the first sound I become aware of as I claw my way out of a heavy doze, burrowing my way through layers of exhaustion and muzziness like a gopher on a mission. I don't know how long I've been asleep, but it's apparently been long enough for my wandering sanity to meander its way home. The prodigal son has at long last returned.

  


I peel my eyes open torpidly and roll my head around to look at my roommate. Heero continues clicking away at the damned game. He's all buttoned up in his snug little coat of obliviousness and does not notice I am staring at him. I decide he's going to have carpal tunnel syndrome if he doesn't get out of here soon. He does nothing _but _play with that dang thing or the clicker all day long. His thumb must have one hell of a callous.

  


I turn my gaze towards the bedside table, trying to read the clock, but my eyes won't focus that clearly and I can't read the glowing red numbers. I'm pretty sure I make out one little blob and one large one, so it must be sometime between noon and ten at night. Or between midnight and 10AM. Same difference. Not like I have plans, or something.

  


I let my attention shift back to Heero. He's further away than the clock and it's easier to focus on him. I frown, looking at him. Something is different. He doesn't look like he did before. Something is missing. I briefly entertain the notion that those caterpillars lounging on his forehead finally gave up posing as eyebrows and crawled away, but closer inspection reveals them to be very much still there. Apparently they've no intentions of weaving little silk cocoons and morphing into butterflies. I'm sure the hospital staff is grateful for their consideration. I don't think they have a butterfly net in residence, although I guess a pair of pantyhose could be sacrificed to the cause of catching them. A vacuum would work pretty damn well, too.

  


What can it be... what can it be... Why, Heero! Have you lost weight?

  


But this isn't a Slim Fast commercial. Heero is not flitting along the waterline on a sandy beach somewhere in the Caribbean, playfully trailing his sarong behind him as he prances about in a floral one-piece. He is not playing on a grassy lawn in a pair of khaki capris, wrestling with several small children over a plastic frisbee. Nor is he holding up a pair of blue jeans large enough to fit the state of Alaska inside them. He is merely sitting in a hospital bed, his broken leg propped up on several pillows, his hair as tangled as his sheets. He's just staring contentedly at that infernal game, tapping away at it with both his thumbs.

  


Both... his thumbs. Both? THAT'S what's missing. The arm cast is gone! His wrist is just encased in one of those stretchy spandex wraps, now. He looks strangely smaller with it missing. Less threatening. Less bulky. Less like an albino Incredible Hulk with a bad wig.

  


And what's that? That black thing lying next to him? A book? Heero reads some pretty thick books. It's about the right size. It could be a book. But what's that stuff lying on top of the book? I blink a few times and try to focus, attempting to lift my head off the pillow. It doesn't quite work, though, as my neck muscles snicker cruelly at my efforts. 

  


_Uh, no. I don't fucking think so, shithead_, they snigger.

  


_Please?_ I beseech. _I wanna see._

  


_Yeah, and we want to go to goddamn Disney World. Fuckin' shit ain't happening, so lay your damn fool head down,_ they snarl.

  


_But I wanna know what it is!_ I wail.

  


_Want, whine, whimper. Is that all the fuck you do, you pansy? We don't always get what we want in life, you beastly foulbegotten brazenthroated ass! Shut the fuck up and deal!_

  


_Please? Just for a second?_ I wheedle.

  


_Fuck, no! Look, loser, your choices are this: either go the hell back to sleep or ask the bastard for yourself._

  


_But he's not paying attention to me,_ I sadly admit.

  


_Then what are you trying to do? You can't see it and he can't see you. Stop wasting our bloody time and just give the fuck up. Fuckin' donkey-raping cockmaster. Never thinking of anyone else..._

  


The voice tapers off, spewing curses all the way down. Neck muscles speak two languages: English and profanity. However, they do manage to construct some _wonderful _arguments. I applaud their talent as I drift back off to sleep. Maybe they should run for Congress. Their arguments were as thin as soup that was made by boiling the shadow of a pigeon that had been starved to death. They'd fit right in.

  


~+~+~

  


"...teriously disappeared shortly after the accident that claimed the investigator's life. Police are still investigating his whereabouts. Citizens are advised to be cautious..."

  


I awaken to the television's pleasant rumble. Heero is watching the news. I lay listening to it for a moment, allowing my brain to come back into contact with my body. My head feels a lot clearer and, when I pry my eyes open, I can actually see the room around me. However, the light seems awfully bright and I shut them again almost immediately. 

  


"...if the suspect is sighted. He is thought to be armed and dangerous. Please notify local authorities and do not attempt contact with the suspect..."

  


I experimentally twitch my hands under the covers and find they are once more mine to command. 

  


"His identifying features are his..."

  


I peek through my eyelashes and wait for my eyes to adjust. Heero's crouched at the foot of his bed, leg sticking awkwardly out, remote control clutched in his hand, peering intently upward at the TV. His back is mostly towards me and I cannot see his face. I wonder what he finds so captivating. He's so entranced he hardly looks to be breathing. 

  


"...hand and eye, which were..."

  


I cautiously open my eyes all the way and blink as they start to water. I lose sight of the room for a moment.

  


"...last seen in the company of this young man, whose name is being withheld at present due to his underage status..."

  


Shoot. My eyes are doing their best impression of Niagra Falls. I can't see a thing. Just how long have I been asleep? I lift my hands to wipe the tears away–

  


–and find myself face-to-face with Heero Yuy in a suddenly quiet room. 

  


"What are you staring at?" he demands through gritted teeth. His eyes are narrowed and filled with an emotion I have never before seen on a fellow man. All possible animal similes fly from my mind. This is not a time for gophers and prairie dogs. This look in his eyes is utterly and distinctly human. No animal could ever muster that intense aura of intimidation, power, and force. He's practically frothing at the mouth. Perhaps he's doing his John Sununu impression. 

  


Drawing on my superb command of language, I say nothing.

  


"What are you staring at?" he repeats, leaning over me and shoving his face right up to mine. I haven't been this intimidated since my last trip to the dentist. Heero has aggression down to an art form. This isn't just creepy, this is _stylistically _creepy. This is creepy with nuts in it. This is $9.99 an ounce, wrapped up in a striped box with a pink bow, French Pastry Shoppe kind of creepy. 

  


Well, Duo Maxwell doesn't do fancy baked goods. 

  


"Back off, Heero," I grit out. He could have at least gargled or something before he came this close.

  


"Were you staring at me or the television?" 

  


"I wasn't staring at anything! Back the hell away!"

  


"The television or me?" he growls.

  


"I told you. I wasn't looking at anything! My eyes were–"

  


He leans way over, his forehead practically pressing up against mine. I can feel his breath on my face. This hostility in his eyes is as thinly cloaked as a exotic dancer. "Me or the TV?"

  


I am getting my ass whipped by a bunch of creme puffs. 

  


He has a scar on his forehead, I note with detachment. My brain is running in stupid circles as I attempt to stutter an answer. What does he want to hear?! "T-TV?" I guess desperately.

  


Abruptly, he stands, seeming to lose interest in me all at once. I lie there, licking my lips nervously, too wary to move. My heart is doing its best rendition of Riverdance, thumping manically against the medication. It dances a furious jig inside my chest and, if it could, would probably toss in a couple of back flips and somersaults for good measure. Take a shot at making the Summer Olympics for gymnastics. Go, Team USA!

  


"You must have been spacing out again," Heero says disinterestedly. "The TV wasn't on." He hobbles to the front of the room and points upwards. "See? Not. On."

  


"But, Heero," I protest against my better judgement, my voice seeming to emerge from my throat on its own accord. Just call it Mr. Independent. "It still has that just-turned-off glow..."

  


"It's a reflection from the overhead lights. I haven't watched any television since yesterday. The doctor said you needed to sleep uninterrupted."

  


"But I just saw you," I insist. "You were sitting right there–" I point with a hand that I am ashamed to see is shaking rather unmanfully. I should take out a part-time job making martinis. Shaken, not stirred, just the way 007 likes them. "–and you had the news on."

  


"So you were staring at me?" he asks in a dangerous tone of voice. He watches at me sullenly, intimidation dripping from every pore in his body. I hope I don't drown.

"Not really," I mumble, thinking back to my conversation with Barton. Hadn't he said Heero was a pathological liar? But why wouldn't he want me to know he'd been watching TV? He'd only had the news on. Well, they always say you shouldn't trust short men. Their brains are too near their asses.

  


"I'm... I'm just confused," I tell him weakly. _That _certainly was the truth. I have no idea what is going on and haven't for some time. Why does he care what I've been looking at? Unless he thought I was checking him out or something. 

  


"You are confused," he repeats. He's been doing that a lot today. Maybe he's stuck on instant replay. Let's see that again! "You were feverish and raving. You've been asleep for a day and a half. You are not lucid."

  


"Really?" I ask, mind grinding to a sudden halt. This is news to me. "I was sick?"

  


"Yes," he nods, sensing my distraction and willingness to indulge this tangent. I don't let him know I'm pursuing this train of thought on purpose. I may be eccentric, but I've never been suicidal. He's obviously pissed about something and the farther away from it we can wander, the better. "Yesterday you were acting very erratically. The doctors came and they took you away for several hours for testing. You don't remember?" 

  


I most certainly do _not _remember, although this does explain the disjointed memory of a conversation with my neck muscles earlier. And here I thought I'd dreamed that up! It seems my understanding of reality is becoming more and more fuzzy. I can no longer tell my hallucinations from real life. Hours have acquired the habit of falling into holes in my memory. The last thing I clearly remember is Detective Barton's visit and I'm not even sure when that was. Yesterday? The day before? Even earlier? 

  


"I'm all mixed up," I admit. Maybe he hadn't been watching television. Maybe that _was _yesterday. Shit, what day is it? I close my eyes and press the heels of my hands up against them, hoping the pressure will relieve some of the aching within my skull. I've already spazzed out about Hilde. What else am I getting wrong?

  


I sigh and let my arms drop down onto the bed. I'd accidentally watched a yoga program on PBS once and the anorexic looking instructor had done some breathing exercises that were supposed to clear the mind. Now is most certainly the time for that. Trying to make myself go limp, I focus all my attention on my breathing. I stop trying to figure out what's been going on. I just concentrate on _now_. 

  


Some people get sexy spouses or breakfast in bed when they wake up. I get rebellious runaways with paranoid TV viewing habits. 

  


When I open my eyes again, Heero is lying in bed, rubbing at _his _eyes. He looks like he's just woken up. His eyelashes have that stuck-together, wet look that always accompanies a deep sleep and he's wearing a different pair of pajamas than he had just had on five minutes ago. Wow. He can change outfits quicker than Clark Kent!

  


"That was quite a power nap, Heero," I chuckle. "But, dude. Dozing off right in the middle of the day is not like you at all!"

  


"It's the morning," he grunts. "You slept all afternoon and night."

  


"What?!" I yelp, springing upright in bed. Drippy protests weakly, but I ignore him. "No, I fucking did not. I just closed my eyes for five freakin' minutes!"

  


"You slept for 16 hours straight," he mumbles, sitting up and stretching. He blearily peers at the bedside table. "It's almost time for breakfast."

  


"No, it's almost time for dinner," I insist. But when I look at the bedside clock, it most certainly does say 9AM. Well, shit. This is a pleasant development. "What is happening to me?" I moan, propping my head in my hands and my elbows on my knees. 

The cast of the "Rocky Horror Picture Show" busts into my mind and starts performing "Time Warp." They're just into the second stanza when the door swings open. 

  


"Well, look who's up!" Quatre waltzes into the room, balancing a tray on each hand. Sure enough, they both contain breakfast foods. He plunks the one with real food down on Heero's bedside tray and the one with cardboard masquerading as pancakes on mine. Not even a drop of syrup, I note with resignation, before turning to Quatre.

  


He's still wearing the cat shirt.

  


"Jeez, buddy! How long have you been on shift?" I ask wonderingly. 

  


"Only about six hours," he says, raising his eyebrows. "Why?"

  


"You were wearing that shirt the last time I saw you. You have more than one or something?"

  


"Of course I was wearing it. That was only a few hours ago," he smiles bemusedly. 

  


"Noooo," I shake my head. "It was like, three days ago."

  


"No, it was just this morning," he laughs. "That fever's kicking your ass, huh? Hey, your clock's way off!" He reaches over and, after consulting his watch, adjusts the time to 5:22PM. 

  


I turn to glare at Heero, starting to get an inkling of an idea about what's going on. "Quatre, why are we having breakfast for dinner?" I ask suspiciously. 

  


He shrugs. "Supposed to be a treat, I guess. Personally, I think _not _feeding you would be a better reward. Watch this." He snatches a pancake off my plate and throws it across the room. It does a very admirable job of imitating a frisbee. "Oh," he looks down at me. "You weren't going to eat that, were you?"

  


I look at the pancake where it's fallen, leaning at an angle against the wall. It's flat as a board. "I doubt I _could _eat that," I assure him. 

  


"I'll find you something else in a minute," he apologizes, heading over to check my IV stand. He trips when he reaches the foot of my bed and pauses to shake something off his foot. "Shit, Heero," he complains, bending down to retrieve a pair of pajamas that look suspiciously like the ones Heero just had on. "I know clothes make the man and all, but remember. Naked people have little to no influence on society." He tosses the abandoned clothes onto the foot of Heero's bed. He watches them sullenly, his cheeks slightly pink.

  


Well, well, well. How the mighty have fallen. I continue glaring at Heero as Quatre checks the IV and takes my blood pressure and temperature, recording the results on my chart. The Amazing Coma Boy refuses to meet my eyes, apparently well aware that his little ruse is blown to hell and back and has even stopped to pick up a few novelty gifts on the way. I should have known better than to trust him. Serves me right for putting all my eggs in one bastard. [1]

  


Quatre finishes fussing with my chart and yawns, throwing himself down into the closest chair. He looks completely beat. "Ahhh, feels good to sit down. It's been a busy day." He dozes off in a matter of seconds.

  


I continue to examine Heero. He's regarding his runny eggs with more intensity than a Harvard Law student taking his bar exam. "You got something you want to say to me?" I ask him threateningly. 

  


He doesn't look up. I carefully pick the remaining pancake off my plate and chuck it at his head. He allows it to smack into his cheekbone and fall onto his lap, ignoring it compliantly. "Are you dead?" I inquire. " 'Cause you're going to be if you don't 'fess up!"

  


Don't think I couldn't do it, either! Unless Russell Baker is mistaken, by the time the average American child has turned six they've already learned how to pick a lock, commit a fairly elaborate bank holdup, prevent wetness all day long, get the laundry twice as white, and kill people with a variety of sophisticated armaments, all courtesy of television. Who knows what I've picked up by this point in my life! 

Heero continues shoveling the Jello-like eggs into his mouth, chewing them determinedly, quite unaware of the montage of life-ending skills I have garnered from the boob tube. It doesn't appear that answering me is included on his personal agenda. "Can you at least tell me why?" I growl, frustrated. I don't really expect an answer, but surprisingly, he carefully places his fork on his tray and faces me. 

"Now we're even," he says flatly. He returns to his lunch.

"Even?" I wonder. "Even for what?" 

"You were staring at me. And you called me Perry Duck," he mumbles around a mouthful of burnt toast. 

"I did what?" I gape. "Why the hell would I do something like that?"

He doesn't answer and I am about to press the issue when Bethany Brawn, physical therapist extraordinare, walks into the room, pushing a wheelchair in front of her. "Ready for a trip to the rehabilitation room, Heero?" she smiles cheerily, ignoring me completely. She's still not over the time I dropped the hand weight on her foot. Serves her right for wearing sneaker clogs. 

He swallows the last of his lunch. "Yes, thank you." I possibly detect a note of eagerness in his voice.

"We were kind of in the middle of a conversation, here," I protest, forcing the bulky redhead to acknowledge my existence. "It's rude to interrupt!"

"It's also rude to break someone's foot," Bethany tells me sweetly. 

"It was an accident! I said I was sorry!"

"You should have told me the weights were too heavy."

"And you should have known I wasn't ready to use them."

"And you _both _should know it's rude to wake up someone who's sleeping," Quatre interjects, sitting up and shoving his hair out of his face.

"I'm sorry, Quatre," I apologize sincerely. "I forgot you were there." Heero maneuvers into the wheelchair and Bethany scowls.

"He gets an apology and I don't?"

"You already got one. What are you? Starting a museum?"

"Fine. I'm not going to argue. I learned long ago that it's pointless to argue with a stubborn ass. You get dirty and besides, the ass likes it."

I resist the urge to comment on anal fetishes and merely wave as she wheels Heero away, his own personal charioteer. "I'd tell you to kiss my ass, but you'd probably enjoy it," I mutter under my breath. Quatre somehow overhears me and chuckles, blowing a kiss in my general direction.

"Only the hopelessly lazy blow kisses," I sniff.

"And the completely exhausted," he groans, dragging himself to his feet. "Think Heero would mind if I borrowed his bed for a moment?"

"Nah. They're gonna change the sheets soon, anyway."

"Perfect," he sighs, flopping face first down onto the bed. "Ahh. This is better than sex."

"How would you know?" I tease. He's already asleep, though and I am once more talking to myself. Yet another bad habit to add to the exhibit, right alongside the fingernail biting and short attention span.

The room hasn't been this quiet for a long time. Unlike _someone_, Quatre doesn't talk in his sleep. 

Feeling kind of antsy, I pluck a deck of cards off the crowded bedside table. Maybe some solitaire would take my mind off of things for a while. Give me a chance to get my anger towards Heero under control. I'll channel all of my pain and hostility into the cards. The clubs _hate _the diamonds.

I find that I can't remember the rules to the game and wind up just placing the cards down at random atop my bedspread. When they are all sorted into neat little piles, I simply declare myself the winner. It's surprisingly satisfying. 

-end chapter thirteen-

Footnotes

[1] But one of the delectable quotes from the ever-witty Dorothy Parker.


	15. Chapter Fourteen: Dat Wascally Wabbit!

Thank you Mama-sama, ashuri chan, tokyo rose, sami, shinigami, white destiny (get your mind out of the gutter. You're blocking my view), tina, bloodlust, dyna (you're welcome for the smile. Thanks for giving one back! ^_^), cally, and emily hato (who gets a big hug just for being her). 

  


Cat's Paw 14

  


I decide to try my hand at some more yoga. If it's good enough for Madonna, it's good enough for me. Plus this time I can rest assured that I won't reawaken in the year 2042. At least not without being chronologically frozen first. Since I'm not exactly the type of person likely to be preserved for posterity's sake, I can safely assume I will regain consciousness in the correct time frame. Preferably the one that precedes med time. 

  


What's that phrase you're supposed to say when you're trying to clear your mind of thought? Ohm? Aren't those units of electricity or something? How is thinking about physics going to make me feel _less _stressed?

  


Oh, screw it. I'll just do it my way. Caribbean. Sunshine. Ice cream. Hot chocolate. Massage. Hot tub.

I've managed to get my breathing and heart rate slowed pretty significantly when the door slams open and pretty much counteracts the entire exercise. What the hell? Did someone roll out the welcome mat and not tell me? Is there a blinking neon sign outside the door that reads "FREE BEER" and points to my room? Has a bikini model taken up residence in the hall, offering kisses to all brave enough to enter the Duo-Lair? Have I at long last become a tourist attraction that can be viewed for three tickets a pop?

  


Free admission with every blood donation.

  


But, no. It is not a troupe of festive carnival goers, trailing balloons and gobbling cotton candy. It's the wonderful Dr S and he has not arrived filled with good will towards men. He enters the room, a solemn procession of one. I am reminded of the conversation Quatre and I once had about him looking like Yanni. I change my mind. He looks like a dwarf who's just been dipped in a bucket of pubic hair. He bears a startling resemblance to a half-melted troll doll, complete with gravity-defying do.

  


For better or for worse, it's not me but Quatre he's stalking. As he passes my bed, he shoots me a dirty glance and motions for me to remain silent. Planning on scaring my buddy, now are we? Duo don't play that game. I smile sweetly up at him, letting him think I'm going along with his diabolical scheme. Then, maintaining eye contact the entire time, I reach out and turn the volume all the way up on the bedside alarm clock. Dr S stops moving towards Quatre and instead begins to shake his head at me violently. I continue smiling as I turn the clock's radio on. Christina Aguilera's voice fills the room and Quatre shifts and mumbles.

  


"Turn that shit off, Rashid," he mutters. "'M up, already."

  


"Rashid?" I laugh. "What were you dreaming about, Arabian Nights?"

  


"Duo?" Quatre lifts his face clear of the pillow and blinks fuzzily at me. "Why're you in my bedroom?"

  


"I believe the question is," Dr S smoothly interjects, "why you were sleeping while on duty?"

  


"Actually," I toss out, "I believe the question is, why would _Rashid _be in your bedroom?"

  


Quatre leaps out of bed at the sound of Dr S' voice, tucking his shirt back in and trying to restore order to his hair. The poor guy is so blonde his hair is color-coordinated with his teeth. "My apologies," he offers, bending to fix his pant cuffs. "I've had to cover several shifts these past two days and I'm a bit worn down. I was told I could take a half-hour break."

  


"I'll be sure to tell that to your patients when they're in the middle of cardiac arrest," the fugly doctor glowers, hitting _way _below the belt. Quatre's face runs the emotional gauntlet, flitting between outrage, embarrassment, horror, shame, and indignity. "You don't get to _choose _when to be a doctor," S continues. "This is your job and if you're incapable of performing to hospital standards, it shouldn't matter who your father is. You need to reevaluate your priorities, young man. For the safety of the patients if nothing else." 

  


Wow. That was... beyond harsh. Quatre appears speechless. I, however, am not thus handicapped. "I'll bet you're real happy you crawled out from under your rock to say that," I spit, dragging myself out of bed and staggering to stand in front of my new arch foe, glad I have Drippy for back-up support. "Quatre's the best doctor I've ever seen and that includes you, you pretentious ass! You've got the worst bedside manner I've ever seen! Your patients wouldn't warm up to you if you were cremated together!"

  


S lowers his head, raises his eyebrows, and rolls his eyes, just like a bull before it charges. Unfortunately, I don't have a little red cape to wave in front of his face and he lunges headlong for Quatre's throat. Verbally, of course. "I see you've done an admirable job of training your little attack dog. Lot of good he'll do you against the Catalonia family, however. Were you aware that, while you were indulging in your little nap, young Dorothy down the hall nearly died?"

  


Quatre goes pale and sits abruptly on the edge of Heero's bed. My own legs feel about as steady as wonky table as S continues.

  


"She is one of your patients, I believe, and unless her chart was mistaken, you had just checked her vitals and IV fifteen minutes earlier. Yet, strangely, you failed to notice the bubble in her IV tube. The poor girl had a heart attack when the air entered her veins. They had to crack her chest to save her and they're still operating as we speak."

  


"Is she going to be okay?" Quatre whispers, his eyes closed. I shove past S and sit next to him on the bed, putting a hand on his shoulder. I can feel him shaking.

  


"It's too early to tell. I think your biggest concern right now," S smugly states, "is whether or not they press charges. The Catalonias are ruthless. If they choose to sue, not even Daddy will be able to save your license, Winner. Of course, then your job will go to someone who–"

  


I lose the rest of S's monologue due to an unprecedented amount of brain static. He called Quatre, "Winner." Quatre's a Winner?! But they own this place! They're frigging multi-billionaires! I'm touching a multi-billionaire! Oh, shit!

  


I rip my hand off Quatre's shoulder in shock, but he looks at me with such an expression of sadness in his eyes that I put it back almost without thought. 

  


Quatre's a Winner. And that would mean... just-call-me-Jack is Jack Winner. And all his sisters.... they would be the infamous Winner Women and there would be twenty-nine of them, not nine or ten. Crap. No wonder I couldn't keep track of them all. They probably only visited me once a piece. This would certainly explain the sheer number of post cards that come pouring in... but, focus! Focus! Quatre's a Winner.

  


This changes everything. I rerun all the conversations and contacts we've had over the years through my mind. Have I ever said anything I shouldn't have? A derogatory remark about the hospital or rich people? Wait, aren't they Moslem? Did I ever say anything bad about Moslems? Shit, this puts everything in a new light. 

  


But this is still Quatre we're talking about! Quatre, who sneaks soda in for me. Who lends me his comic books and DVDs. Who took me to my first major league baseball game and even caught a fly ball for me. Who came to the orphanage and threatened to beat up Bobby Flatterhy if he didn't stop picking on me. Who makes sure I don't get the crappy lemon Jell-O at lunch time. Who always stops by to visit even when he's so tired he looks like one of the undead from a B movie. 

  


Quatre's a Winner. That means his family is the one who's been paying for my healthcare. He's the one I owe my life to. This does change everything. Now I know who I have to thank for being alive. 

  


"–go home early. It'd be best if you made yourself scarce until we see how the Catalonias react. Great job, Winner. I'm sure Daddy must be very proud." S shakes his head condescendingly and leaves the room. The second he's gone, Quatre rolls up into this hapless little ball of angst. I shift my hand so it's resting on his back and pat him awkwardly. I'm not really good at this physical contact thing.

  


"So now you know," he says miserably. 

"Know what? What a great guy you are?" I chuckle, refusing to indulge in his self-pity. I'll be damned if I'm going to crucify him for what happened to Dorothy. Shit happens and until someone proves to me beyond a shadow of a doubt that that was Quatre's fault, there will be no finger-pointing from me, if I have anything to say about it. And believe me when I say I can say an awful lot, I say! 

  


"You're not mad at me for lying to you?" he asks, still not looking at me. I'm startled, although I try not to show it. _That's _what he's worried about? What I'd think of him now that his true identity has been revealed? Jeez, what planet did this guy come from? He's no more human than the plastic flowers on the window sill, although I have to admit he smells a heck of a lot better.

Wondering how a guy like Quatre managed to get through Junior High intact, I punch him in the shoulder with all the strength I can muster. Which isn't much. "Nah. I figure you're a pretty handy guy to keep around. Besides, who else am I going to play pancake frisbee with?"

  


"I was going to tell you," he admits sheepishly. "I just wasn't sure _when_. I was so afraid that it would change things between us."

  


"It does," I tell him bluntly. He looks horrified, and then I snicker. "Jeez, Quat! Do you know how long I've wanted to tell the Winners thank you? I thought I'd never be able to repay them! Now I don't have to worry anymore. Assholes like you don't deserve thanks."

  


He laughs a little jaggedly. "Like we'd even touch a thank you card from a jerk like you! You might've licked the stamp."

  


"Oh, stamps are self-stick now. But I supposed a rich boy like you wouldn't know about anything so mundane as postage stamps, now would he?"

  


I earn what sounds like a borderline hysterical giggle. "No, we're too busy dealing with lawsuits and court summons." He groans and flops backwards onto the bed, nearly pinning my hand beneath him. "Oh, shit. Dad's gonna kill me!" 

  


"Well, they haven't even pressed charges yet," I remind him. "They might not."

  


"Oh, I don't care about that," he informs me. "We've got lawyers that you wouldn't believe. It's just that Dad's gonna hit the roof when he finds out about Dorothy. God, how could I have been so careless?!" He sounds like he's going to start crying. I shift uncomfortably. I hate when guys cry. It's just so... not guyish.

  


"How many shifts have you worked in the past week, Quatre?" I sharply ask, poking him in the ribs. He grunts a little and bats my hand away. 

  


"I dunno. I lost track," he admits.

  


"Well, how many hours of sleep have you had, not counting naps?" I continue interrogating. I should be a detective when I grow up. Maybe Barton can hook me up with a job opening. 

  


Ugh. But then I'd have to work with the likes of Treize. Maybe I'll just stick to being an invalid.

  


"Ummm... about three hours a day."

  


"Well, no wonder you screwed up. Damn, Quat! I wouldn't let someone change my oil on that little sleep, never mind give competent medical care! What the heck are the administrators thinking?"

  


"That we're shorthanded and understaffed," he mutters, sounding half-asleep. "And despite what S thinks, it's precisely because I'm a Winner that I'm the one who got stuck with all the extra hours. Dad felt bad asking the others. They've all got families and kids..."

  


"That's not fair to you, Quat. Did you tell him how tired you are?"

  


"Nah. I don't want to whine. I can handle it. Or I _was _handling it."

  


"No, you weren't. You were dealing. You weren't handling. Crap. I thought you doctors were supposed to be intelligent?"

  


He chuckles. "Stereotype. We're actually rather dim."

  


"That doesn't exactly give me great faith in the medical care I'm receiving, mister."

  


"Oh, shove it. Not like you're paying for it..." He mumbles, already more asleep than awake. If he knew what he was saying, he never would have let that jibe slip. Not that it hurt my feelings -it's only the truth- but because he would be afraid that it would. 

  


"Okay, buddy. Get some sleep, already," I tell him, but he's already drifted off. I guess there comes a time when exhaustion simply cannot be ignored any longer. I'd worry about Dorothy for him, but I'm sure she'll pull through. She's here, after all.

  


"You loser," I say quietly, trying to prod Quatre into a more comfortable position. He looks like a contortionist. "Why didn't you just say how tired you were?" I manage to shift his feet onto the bed and set about to untangling the blankets. "Someone would have covered while you got some sleep. They like you." I pull the blanket out from under his legs and–

  


And why is my journal in Heero's bed?

  


I rip the blanket completely off the bed and toss it to the floor. Quatre mutters, but doesn't awaken. 

  


Holy Transvestite Barbie. It's not just the journal, but everything, _everything _that was in my black bag. I sit in shock, debating whether to pass out, go ballistic, or calmly gather my things and plan an ambush. 

  


Pass out: Been there, done that. Getting a little sick of the scenery. Or lack there of. 

  


Go ballistic: Probably not the best thing to do when you've got to watch your blood pressure.

  


Plan an ambush: Not only is it creative, it's also fun for the entire family! Of course, I constitute my entire family, but that's beside the point. The point is that Heero's a treacherous, brain-damaged blockhead who deserves to be castrated on sight. 

  


Plan C wins. 

  


Step one is to gather my things. The bag itself is shoved down at the foot of the bed, crumpled and abandoned. I pick it up with shaking hands and set about to reclaiming my possessions.

  


The journal I kept the last time I was in the hospital. Shit, I really hope Heero hadn't read it. Even I can't read it without getting chills. Those were not happy times. 

  


A piece of the _very _long hair I once had. I used to wear it in a braid just to keep it out of the way. Everyone hated it, a big part of why I loved it, and when the chemo had started making it fall out, I'd told them to just shave my head and get it over with. I'd saved one of the longer locks and tied it into a knot so the strands wouldn't get lost.

  


A mass card from Father Maxwell's funeral. The closest thing to a paternal figure I ever had. He'd passed on before I got sick the first time. I know if he had been alive, he wouldn't have left me alone in the hospital. He would have visited every day.

  


A few photos of Quatre and I. My favorite, the Mr. Clean one, and a couple from a trip we took to the zoo. Him riding on a camel, looking scared to death, and me running in fear of a clown that was handing out balloons. I freakin' hate clowns.

  


A piece of a baby blanket. The nuns told me I was wrapped up in it when they found me on the orphanage steps. It's the only reminder I have of my parents. It's faded and pink. Looking at it makes me wonder if they even took the time to realize they had a son, not a daughter. Makes me wonder if I was abandoned because I _wasn't _female. 

  


A newspaper article about me being left on the orphanage steps. Stuff like that is pretty unusual, especially in a city like this one. It talks about an investigation to find my parents. The case was never solved.

  


The only Valentine I ever got. The kids at school never liked me much and were always picking on me. I guess I just didn't fit in. I'd never get birthday cards or Halloween candy or anything like that from the kids in class. Then this one year, this really popular girl named Maria came to school with only one Valentine and it was for me. She marched right up to my desk, slapped it down, glared around the room, and flounced over to her chair, daring anyone to make an issue of it. No one did. It's just a red construction paper heart with a doily glued to the back. It doesn't even have any writing on it, but it made me feel pretty damn special. Maria moved the next day. 

  


A patch of a F-15. An air show had once come to town and the nuns had taken us to see the planes. The patch was my souvenir. I had wanted to be a pilot in the worst way for years afterwards and made them sew it onto whatever coat I was wearing at the time. The thing is practically falling apart.

  


A Congratulations! certificate. The WMC gives them to all their cancer patients when they go into remission. I suppose mine doesn't really apply anymore, but I keep it anyway. Who knows? It might be useful again one day.

And that's it. My entire life, summed up in nine items. Pretty damned pathetic. Pretty damned sad.

  


Pretty damned personal.

  


Time for step two. I cannot fucking _wait _until Heero gets back. I have just been on a trip down memory lane and I'm pretty certain revenge is a form of nostalgia. He is going to pay. Oh, yes. He will pay, indeed.

  


-end chapter 14-

  



	16. Chapter Fifteen: And behind curtain two ...

Thank you to mama-sama (wow! You're quick on the draw!), new moon, makya, tiger shinigami, white destiny, ace, shadow-kat, si-poo, and hakumei. ^_^

  


Cat's Paw 15

  


By the time I hear Heero's approach, I have had such an ample time to stew in my own anger that my emotions couldn't be more sensitive if I had been pulverizing them with a meat tenderizer for the past hour. The very name fills me with such feelings of enmity and hatred I wouldn't be surprised if fire came shooting out of my eyes, searing anything within range until it's more brittle than a Cheezit.

  


Heero. The name is so loathsome and vile that it should be used to describe things like underarm odor and those hair balls that clog up the sink. 

  


Heero. A word so grating and abrasive it could wear a hole through titanium alloy.

  


Heero. A person so inhuman he should donate his carcass to the US Bureau of Wildlife for scientific research.

  


"Heero, you're making remarkable progress!" An encouraging male voice drifts into the room over the usual hospital din.

  


Oh, good. Maybe they'll be sending him home to his father soon. I hope they forget to punch air holes in his shipping crate. 

  


But he can't depart before I teach him a well-deserved lesson. Inconsiderate brat with no sanctity for the privacy of others. It's a good thing I met Quatre first, or I would have thought all rich kids were gibbering, disgraceful, depraved morons liberally sprinkled with apathy. Nuttier than a peanut butter cup and more obnoxious than the bad breath that follows one's consumption.

  


Heero makes his grand entrance on a pair of aluminum crutches, hopping along with all the grace of a jack-in-the-box. Vinnie, Bethany's assistant, is hovering at his elbow, the words "Just in Case" practically tattooed on his forehead. Heero quite obviously doesn't need any help, but that doesn't stir the mustached man from post. I wonder what Bethany has threatened to do if any harm comes to her patient. Judging from Vinnie's expression, probably something involving amputated body parts and boiling olive oil. Not exactly your traditional Italian dinner at the Olive Garden.

  


Heero pauses when he sees Quatre's prone form in his bed and I emerge from the darkened bathroom, stepping into the light with what I hope is a flair of the dramatic, but suspect is merely a healthy sense of the ridiculous. The impression is not helped by the bright yellow backpack slung across my shoulder, looking much like a jaundiced leech. Unfortunately, it was all I could come up with on such short notice. Nurse Wendy's dubious taste aside, it is serving its God-given purpose and isn't that all we can ask of anything?

  


"Hall, _now_," I order in a low voice when Heero notices me. I must have sounded quite impressive indeed, for he hesitates, nods, and actually exits the room. Vinnie follows at his heels, clinging to his ass like a hemorrhoid. I meet them in the hallway, gently shut the door behind me, and point at them both in turn. "You, report back to the queen of the harpies. You, follow me." Then I stalk down the hall with all the authority I can muster while wearing a banana bag and trailing an overloaded IV stand with a squeaky wheel. After a pause, I hear a pair of crutches begin to thump after me. 

  


Good. The plan is working. Welcome to my web, said the spider to the fly. 

  


God, why am I so lame?

  


I enter the lounge where Barton and I had our little chat earlier and reclaim my armchair. I am thus able to face the doorway and glare with intimidation when my fabulous roommate arrives. He pauses just outside the room, balanced on his two crutches and looking inebriated with indignity. I glare impatiently until he sets his jaw and hobbles under the doorframe. 

  


"Shut the door and sit," I snap in a tone of voice that I hope leaves no room for argument. Apparently it is indeed objection-proof for he does as I instructed. When he is parked on the sofa and his crutches are safely laid on the floor, I clear my throat and begin my speech.

  


"We," I say in a falsely friendly voice that sounds much like Martha Stewart's, "aren't leaving this room until we get a few things straight. You have been treating a number of people around here very badly, myself all of them." Well, that was a coherent way to begin. "There are things that need to be explained and apologies that need to be extended. And I think a good place to begin would be here." 

  


I unzip what I have mentally dubbed the Safety Dance Bag and remove my black pouch. Heero's eyes widen almost imperceptibly and he fidgets ever so slightly as I lay it on the coffee table. 

  


"I found this in your bed, with its contents scattered across the sheets. Despite all of my brain's efforts, I couldn't come up with one valid explanation as to how it got there. I would be most ingratiated, oh benevolent one, if you would enlighten me as to how it managed to migrate from my possession to yours."

  


He doesn't answer and chooses instead to fiddle with the buttons on his pajama top. I resist the urge to lay claim to his crutches and beat him like a pinata. Instead I dip into the bag once more. I think I deserve a reward for my personal restraint. Something along the lines of being given permission to dismember the person of my choice. After laying down drop cloths and putting on goggles, of course. There are safety regulations to adhere to in today's world!

  


"Don't feel like sharing, huh? Well, maybe you'd feel more comfortable talking about this." I draw out a spiral bound notebook and lay it next to the bag. 

  


Heero twitches. "Where did you get that?"

  


"It's amazing what one can find in those lockable bureau drawers," I muse. "I wonder what else was in there? Let's find out." Feeling rather proud of my newfound skill at lock-picking, I delve into the Safety Dance Bag once more. "Hmm. A wallet. And oh! Look at this! A Palm Pilot. Well, aren't we just the well-supplied little school boy."

  


"How did you get those?" he breathes.

  


I grin arrogantly. "They really need to invest in some better locks, man. Or at least keep better track of their paper clips." 

  


He makes a snatch for his possessions, but I smack his fingers away. "Ah, ah, ah. Not so fast. After all, fair is fair. You taught me that. Everything has to be even, right Heero? I call you Perry Duck, you make me think I'm insane? You got through my things, I go through yours?"

  


"You looked at them?"

  


"Well, I hardly went through all the bother of securing them for my health, roomie," I announce airily. Actually, I hadn't looked through them. Just the notebook. And that was just a bunch of complicated math equations and rough sketches for what looked like circuits of some kind. It just reeked of AP physics. Opening it had hardly been akin to what Heero had done to me and had only whet my anger.

  


"And what do you think?" he asks, looking either desperate or furious. It's hard to tell with him.

  


"I think you have some explaining to do," I say firmly, leaving my answer ambiguous. 

  


He puffs air out of his nose and looks like he wishes he could slaughter me where I sit and take a run for it. I dare him to try. I am so filled with angry energy, I could take on Oscar De La Hoya one handed and walk away triumphant! Half-blind, maybe. Missing teeth, perhaps. But triumphant nonetheless!

Heero caves in less than half the time I thought it would take. Swell. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner I can get back to my regularly scheduled programming. "Remember when I told you about Dr J?" he asks heavily, his voice creaking like a rusty hinge or Drippy's wheel.

  


"Sure. You only talk about him the way some people talk about Jesus."

  


"That–" he points to the notebook "–is his. I'm just holding it for him until... he has somewhere safe to put it." He glares. "No one was supposed to see it."

  


"What, is he hoping for a Nobel Prize, or something?" I snort. "Never mind. Now what about this?" I pick up the Palm Pilot and flip open the cover, managing to turn it on. The screen darkens and a password prompt appears on the tiny screen. I blink. Password?

  


Heero grabs it from my hand and shuts the cover. 

  


"That is his, as well." He shoves the tiny device into the breast pocket of his pajama shirt.

  


I grunt. This isn't going well. How am I supposed to exact revenge upon my roommate if all of my blackmail fodder belongs to someone else? "And I suppose this is his, too?" I fish the wallet off the table and rub my thumb across the smooth leather. Somehow I doubt it belongs to the enigmatic Dr J. I just can't picture a genius scientist wandering around with a billfold that has an eagle imprinted on it. Especially one that bears the initials "H.Y."

  


The wallet is so stuffed full of crap, it's bulging quite impressively. If Heero were to keep it in his back pocket, he would probably look crooked while sitting down. It's that thick. I wonder if he has a permanent indent in his left butt cheek.

  


"So you haven't opened it yet?" 

  


"Thought it would be something we could share," I shrug. "A real bonding experience. Let's see..." I open the brown leather billfold and begin poking around. Heero tenses, but doesn't spring for my throat. So far so good. "Hmm. Business card. Business card. Business card. Business card." I chuck them down onto the table as I pull them out. "Business card. Business card. Business card." 

  


Jeez. Does he use his wallet as a Rolodex?

"Business card. Business card. Business card. Business card.... What the hell, Heero? You a paper klepto or something?" 

  


"Some people keep movie stubs in their wallets."

  


"Yeah, and they're twelve and female." I pull about five more business cards out of the various little pockets. I pause to examine them. "Ralph DeTri. Ralph's Lawn Services." I snicker. "Making sure the lawn gets enough fertilizer for Daddy's taste, Heero?"

  


His face goes all closed and ugly. I freeze, unsure of what I've said that offended him so majorly. Is mentioning yard work some kind of social faux pas in the land-o-billionaires? Is overseeing the landscaping schedule something to be ashamed of? Or maybe it was just the mention of his father. Barton did say they don't really get along. Heck, for all I know an argument over the proper grooming of the shrubbery could be what caused Heero to run away! Maybe Daddy Warbucks wanted the bushes cut in a octagonal configuration and the disobedient son was all for a whimsical, sculpted mermaid. I picture Heero arguing with an aristocratic man in the center of a sprawling garden. The father is dressed in a velvet dressing coat and leather slippers. He's smoking a pipe and has the Wall Street Journal tucked under his arm. Heero is gesticulating wildly, holding a landscaping map, obviously frustrated and POed. Edward Scissorhands is standing off to the side, looking uneasy, awaiting instructions. Pablo the pool boy is close at hand, wearing a tangerine Speedo and sipping a Long Island iced tea. He offers Edward a taste and Daddy Warbucks pats his son on the head. Heero flushes, throws the map into a nearby fountain, and strides away, flipping his father off over his shoulder. Pablo looks horrified and Edward begins to wiggle his scissors nervously, accidentally mutilating a prize winning rose bush. Daddy Warbucks puffs on his pipe and mutters under his breath about "infernal offspring." 

  


I bring myself back to the real world with a shake of my head. Now that was strange, even for me. I might be just a teensy bit more stressed than I thought. 

  


Caribbean. Hot tub. Massage. Hot chocolate. Sunshine. 

  


Focus, Duo. Focus!

I halfway expect to find that Heero really _has _stalked off during my little trip to Neverland. However, he remains perched stiffly on the sofa. Feeling like I might very well be holding my life in my hands, I gently place the last of the business cards with their little friends and offer him a smile. 

  


"I think that's all of them," I inform him. "What else ya got?" 

  


Not much. A battered library card, a driver's license, and a blood donor card, all with the name Heero Yuy printed boldly across their fronts. Not exactly compelling stuff. However, the military ID certainly catches my eye.

  


"Camp Dover Military Training Academy?" I read off the card, raising my eyebrow. "What is this, some kind of reform school?"

  


He dips his head, looking uncomfortable. "Yes. It's also where I live."

  


"Live? Is it a year round school?"

  


"Only if you have no place else to go."

  


"No place to go? But what about your father's house?"

  


"I'm... not welcome there. He's never been around much."

  


I change my future career goals once more. Perhaps I'll be a dentist. Talking to Heero I am becoming wonderfully adept at pulling teeth. "Never? Just how long have you been living at this place?"

  


"Since I was five."

  


"WHAT?!"

  


"I told you. My father didn't have time for me."

  


"So he just pawned you off to some military school?"

  


"Obviously."

  


Holy shit. No wonder he hates his father. No wonder he runs away so often. He's almost as much an orphan as I am!

  


"Wow, dude," I apologize, tucking all the business cards and whatnot back into their respective homes. "I'm really sorry. That sucks ass." I fork the wallet over into his waiting hands. "I wouldn't have brought it up if I'd known."

  


He looks at me oddly. "I wouldn't have looked if I'd known, either. It was just kind of... there. I didn't know what it was."

  


"Looked...? Oh! Oh..." The bag. Am I still mad about that? I want to be. I should be. I deserve to be. But I'm not. "Hey, don't worry about it. Just don't do it again, okay? Ask or something, next time. Well, not next time, but. Aw, you know what I mean."

  


He smiles. An actual smile. A real smile, not one of those forced ones he gives the doctors. Not a creepy one he uses when he wants to intimidate me. It's an honest smile. A warm smile. An intimate smile. I have absolutely no idea what I've done to put it there. All I did was act like a moron and I do that on a regular basis. What was it about today that made it special?

  


This is certainly not planning out the way I thought it would. I'd imagined a possible fist fight and defiantly the exchange of some rather derogatory references to mothers and barnyard animals. Instead we're sharing a Kodak moment. 

I don't know what our secret is, but we should box it and send it to the UN. 

  


-end chapter 15-

  


Zooie: OH MY GOD. I SEE THE END.

  



	17. Chapter Sixteen: a twelvestory crisis wi...

Thank you Mama-sama (first again!), Shinigami, Ace, Dyna (more like how I wish I thought), Rouge Mage, White Destiny, Ashuri chan, scarlettrose, oOkimOo, Forever Duo's Girl/Tara Saturn, Kiki neko, Tiger Shinigami, Amalthea, Cha Shinimegami (nope. no yaoi. sorry...), Si-poo, Empress Videl (so was or wasn't it spiked?), Tokyo Rose, and Kokoro no Yami (thanks for Satchi! She's pretty useful. Makes great sesame chicken, too.).

  
  
  


Cat's Paw 16

So things went somewhat back to normal after that, or at least as normal as they ever get in my demented little world. We returned to our room to find Quatre gone and a note on my bed, telling me he'd keep in touch but wouldn't be around for a bit for understandable reasons. Although the circumstances left a lot to be desired, at least they meant he could catch up on some much needed rest. On that strain, I myself crashed and slept for about 24 hours straight, worn out from the fever and excitement of the past couple of days. I had a number of odd dreams, one involving Pez dispensers and talking dinosaurs, but nothing I remembered with any amount of clarity. 

  


When I awoke at long last, I was greeted with a shy smile and an offer to play some Scrabble. Startled by the sudden voluntary companionship, I had accepted. We'd settled facing one another on my bed, with Heero's leg propped up on a chair and the board in between us. The game had evolved into a kind of spill-all bonding session. Heero'd gotten the story behind the black bag and its contents and he'd confessed his habit of collecting business cards with puns on them. Like the lawn care one run from Ralph DeTri, pronounced "de-tree."

  


Then we began to validate our mutual dislike for Bethany.

  


"I thought you liked her, man! You perk right up the second she walks into the room."

  


"I love the exercise, not her, that bulbous grotesquery!" he smirks, borrowing one of my favorite phrases. Then he proceeds to score 30 points in one turn, managing to use a Q on a double word score. Dammit. This isn't right. I actually have to _try _against him. My mind isn't used to this kind of exertion! We're barely half done and my intellect is already wheezing like an asthmatic ant doing some heavy lifting.

"She is grotesque, isn't she? Her breath smells like Satan's behind," I muse, my attention consumed almost completely by my lackluster letters. They are showing absolutely no enthusiasm for this game and are making no effort at all to obtain victory. Well, I firmly believe you should never take crap from inanimate objects. All they need is a little pep talk. Come on, guys! Show some life! Where's your ambition? Don't you want to be part of something great, something polysyllabic? Don't you want your names written on the roster amongst the Objects Who Do Things?

Apparently not. I sigh and spell out the word, "cat."

"What do you plan to do if she shows up and tries to make you do some exercises?" Heero asks, studying the board. His fingers are resting near the edge of his cast and I think I catch a couple of aborted attempts at scratching. He's not nearly so tough as he likes to pretend.

"Tell her to go in the corner and fornicate herself." I draw two letters from the bag. Ohh, look. A U and a U. [1] How useful. 

"You would not." He contradicts my boasting, adding "alyze" to the end of "cat," making a nice tidy score for himself. How apt. There are many things I would like to catalyze at present, my mental synapses ranking at the top of the list.

"I did, once," I absently say, trying to come up with a word that can be created with AUUUBWR and is longer than three letters. I know! I'll solve this problem using my four hyper-intelligent brains! 

Brain one: My bologna has a first name. It's O-S-C-A-R.

Brain two: Why is Kansas pronounced "can-siss" and Arkansas pronounced "ark-can-saw" if they both have the word Kansas in them?

Brain three: I'm cold!

Brain four: Where's the beef?

Oookay. Maybe not. I guess I'll just have to rely on good ole Mr. Unpredictability. Surprisingly, he never fails to come through, unlike his friend, Mr. Reliability, whose track record is not so hot. Sometimes I wonder if they just switched name tags to see if anyone would notice the difference.

"How did she react?"

"Ehh? Oh, Bethany. Actually, I don't know. She left the room and refused to see me for a week." She'd even managed to maintain her professional dignity and refrained from slugging me. I'd eventually extended a well-deserved apology. I know when I've been a jerk and that was defiantly one such occasion. "I can't say I missed her while she was gone, though. No one who's human can handle that beast."

"I don't have a problem handling her."

"Then you're not human. Now stop talking! You're distracting me." 

"Like that's difficult," Heero mumbles, but he does shut up.

"Azur"I spell out after a moment, using the Z already on the board.

"What's that mean?" Heero asks.

"It's a real word," I defend the fruit of my labor. This is my brainchild. Please refrain from squashing it. It has traveled long and hard to arrive at this junction and do you know how draining intercontinental travel is these days? Why, visa approval alone takes months. "It's French." 

"So is eating snails, cruelty to frogs, and urinating in the street, but that doesn't mean you can use it in Scrabble." [2]

"Come on, Heero! Cut me some slack! You're whipping my ass!"

He practically preens and straightens his back ever-so-slightly. His arrogance is about as subtle as a rhinoceros horn up the rear. His entire posture just screams "here sits a man of true Scrabble greatness." Either that or "here are my genitals. Please kick them." I know which one I would prefer.

"I'll make you a deal," he offers slyly. 

"What?" I ask with the utmost suspicion.

"I'll let you use 'azur' if you tell me why you hate Bethany so much."

"How come you get to bend the rules but I don't?"

"I'm winning."

"Can't you be lenient?"

"Lenient is a dirty word." That _has _to be the military school talking. 

"Lenient isn't a dirty word. Crevice is a dirty word, but lenient isn't."

"Can't you just answer the question?"

"Alright, alright! It's a deal. I hate Bethany because the first thing she ever said to me was, 'Your name is Duo? Do you have multiple personalities or just hate to be alone?'."

He snorts. "How very... mature of you."

"Yeah, and it's so mature for a thirty-five year old to mock her patient?"

"You have a point."

"Totally. So, azur. Double word, twenty-six points. Score!!"

"Why _are _you named Duo? It's strange."

What is with this fascination with my name? I've endured it my entire life and must say, I do not understand it at all. I've met people named Merry Blue Byrd and Prince Edward and even Penny Nicholls. Why the heck is my name so intriguing?! I'm not the one named after spare change! "None of your business. Why are _you _named something weird like Heero? Your dad watch a lot of 'Hogan's Heroes' or something?"

And the floodgates open. The camel's back breaks. The self-sacrificing Dutchman removes his finger from the hole in the dike. The emotions spew forth and the bear straps on his helmet and revs his motorcycle, speeding hastily away into the sunset. Houston, we have lift-off.

Heero does his best surly interpretation and believe me when I say it is definitely a performance worthy of the Academy. His cheek ticks and his eyebrow twitches. His jaw clenches, his neck muscles strain, his brow furrows, and even his hair seems to become hackled. He has all the charisma of an Immaculate Conception between Abraham Lincoln and William DaFoe. I am... disturbed and rather alarmed. Even the Scrabble tiles quake in fear.

There is an ancient Greek legend about a seemingly ordinary container that encased all the evils of the world. When opened, it released those horrors into the world at large. How insightful those Greeks were! They were right about everything sans the name. They called it "Pandora's Box," when, in actuality, it should have been named, "Heero's Eyes."

"I'm sorry, man," I offer, trying to look unobtrusive and contrite. This is yet another occasion where I know I've been a schmuck and need to apologize. I mentally scribble the situation down on an index card and file it in my brain so I can be sure to avoid making this mistake in the future. I even cross-reference it for good measure. "I've always had this problem with crossing lines. Got yelled at a lot in Kindergarten art class and all." Well aware of the danger I am flirting with, I reach over and pat his hand, half expecting to draw back a bloody stump. The physical contact serves to jar Heero out of whatever not-nice place he's festering in.

"Stop." He jerks his hand away and frowns. "Don't apologize. I'm not mad at you." 

Well, there's a relief. 

"I just can't... I have this memory, but..." He stares earnestly forward, the frown permanently ingrained on his face. "I just can't remember..."

"Hey, whatever," I chuckle. "Don't worry about it. I was just being my normal, stupid self. I'm not as smart as I look and, hey. I look liked a half-wit to begin with! I mean, practically everything goes over my head. I'm thinking of moving to Jamaica and becoming a limbo dancer."

"Duo, stop. It's...I just...I don't know why I'm called Heero," he forces out. "But I don't think it's my real name. I remember being called something else once." 

Having learned absolutely nothing from my past mistakes, my mental filing cabinet having been swallowed in its entirety by the black hole that is my mind, I say the first thing that pops into my head. Fortunately for me, it's halfway intelligent. "Maybe your dad changed your name when he enrolled you in school. So you wouldn't be connected to him or something."

He looks at me oddly. "Wouldn't be connected?"

"Yeah. Your dad's pretty important, right? Maybe he didn't want anyone to know you two were related. Give people leverage and all that. Kidnapping, ransoms, threats, the whole nine yards. Maybe he thought if he changed your name it would keep you safe and... and... why are you looking at me like that, Heero?" 

"What do you know about my father?"

"N-not much. Just that he's pretty important and high profile and..." My voice sputters to a halt, effectively killed by the look in Heero's eyes.

"And?" he asks menacingly.

"And... the kind of person people would blackmail," I finish weakly. "Did I say something wrong again, man?" 

Did I say a halfway intelligent comment? I meant a completely boneheaded slip of the tongue. 

This is a crisis. A large crisis. In fact, it's a twelve-story crisis with a magnificent vestibule, carpeting throughout, 24-hour room service, and an enormous sign on the roof, saying "This Is a Large Crisis." 

Oh, shit. Heero doesn't know I know about his father. 

Oh, shit. He thinks I thought he was dumped in military school by his adoptive uncle, not a fancy, schmancy billionaire.

Oh, shit. He looks like he might hit me. I need to come up with a cunning plan quickly! Unfortunately, right now I wouldn't recognize a cunning plan if it painted itself turquoise and perched naked on top of a harpsichord singing 'Cunning plans are here again'.

Well, there's always the Farm Stand Stratagem. Make like vegetables. Lie like broccoli. But dare I risk the tell-tale cow-face? [3] 

Come on, brain! I mentally kick myself, trying to switch gears from "panic" to "defend." Why does my mouth always desert me just when I need it most? 

"How did you find out about my father?" Heero asks, leaning forward with a very not-good glint in his eyes.

"Um. How _did _I find out? Barton! Barton told me. He didn't want to, but... but Barton told me. And, hey!" I force a chuckle. "He told me Lowe is still alive. He's just at another hospital. That's good news, right? ..... Right?"

"That fucking bastard," Heero spits, his face going very ugly. He clenches his fists and... growls. That's the only word to describe it. He fucking _growled_, just like a wild lion that's cornered and facing the Barnum and Baily ringmaster. Except I don't have a circus and most certainly have left my whip in my other pajamas. Heero begins muttering to himself in a guttural voice, staring off into space with an savage look in his eye. I try to keep still so he doesn't gore me out of sheer reflex. "So they already fucking know. Fuck. _Fuck_. So what the fuck are they doing? Do they think I'll lead them to him? What the fuck? What the hell else did he tell you?" The last is directed to me in a much louder tone of voice. I flinch and... 

And my mouth springs in action! "Fuck off! I don't have to tell you anything," I glare, my courage bolstered by the return of my mouthiness. "Get the hell off my bed!"

I find myself suddenly flat on my back with Heero's forearm pressed rather uncomfortably against my throat. My ears are ringing, probably because I slammed my head against the headboard on the way down, and Drippy has descended to new levels in my chest, due mainly to the way Heero's leaning against him. "What did he tell you?" he demands icily, his face inches above mine.

"Fuck off!" I attempt to throw him off of me, but that's about as successful as trying to make peace in the Middle East. 

"Did you tell him about the goddamn notebook?" he exacts, pressing his arm more firmly into my windpipe. Breathing becomes a fond memory. "Did you fucking tell him about Dr J? The Palm Pilot? The business cards? What the fuck does he know?"

I gasp, unable to answer even if I had wanted to -which I sure as hell don't. I need to do something, quick! The words 'I have a cunning plan' rapidly march towards me with ill-deserved confidence. They leap up and down energetically until I grope frantically for a weapon. My hand flails against the bedside table and I feel my way up to its top. My fingers encounter a half-full cup of water. That'll do.

Getting as firm a grip on it as I can, I attempt to slam it into Heero's brow. My aim is a bit off and I only manage to smash it into his ear. That is adequate, however, to startle him enough that I can shove him down onto the floor. He lands with a thud and a slight groan. Bet that hurt his poor little leg. Too effing bad. Gulping air, I take a precious second to disconnect Drippy from my chest and then throw myself off the opposite side of bed from where Screw Yuy is lying. 

If Bethany chose to show up at this moment, I would kiss her feet, sneaker clogs and all, and thank her for the privilege.

Where is the call box? Where is the call box? Where is the call box? I can barely breath, let alone holler for help. Where is the call box? I stagger to my feet and frantically rip Heero's bed apart looking for it. No time. No time to look. Where _is _it?! 

My search ends abruptly when a hand clamps down onto my ankle and yanks me off the bed. My head connects rather sharply with the floor. Everything gets fuzzy and disjointed. I'm aware of what's going on around me, but can't quite participate. A boy in a bubble. Bubble boy. Bubbley bubble. Bubba. Bubba Gump Shrimp Company. Lieutenant Dan! New legs!

"Won't let you take him! I'll die first. But not before I kill you. You hear me? You fucking pawn. Don't you see what they're using you for? Don't you see what's happening? You're nothing but a cat's paw. A tool!" A section of my mind notes that Heero is once more doing his best to strangle the bajeezes out of me. Is that the only trick he has up his sleeve? Silly Heero. Tricks are for kids.

"I'll kill you. Kill you," he mutters over and over again, shaking in rage. He's sitting on me, I notice. That's funny. No one's ever sat on me before. But then, no one's ever strangled me before either. I wish I could remember the date. It's a day of firsts. My First Date, by Duo Maxwell. I could mark it on the calendar.

My consciousness is becoming bored with the strangulation process, which takes a rather long time. Sighing, it decides to close up shop for a little bit. It hangs a "back in five minutes" sign in the window, locks the door, and saunters off to get a Slurpee, leaving Heero to do whatever he wishes with the Bubble Boy in the erstwhile. 

Just before it wanders completely out of sight, it hears a crash in the distance. It looks back, interest momentarily piqued, but decides it's much more interested in taking a break than investigating the noise. Whistling, it continues on its merry way and a great weight is lifted off its chest as it goes.

-end chapter sixteen-

Footnotes

[1] Despite conventional grammar rules which state that vowels should be preceded by "an," it seems that the letter U is a special exception. It gets "a" instead. Don't ask me why. Maybe because it just sounds better?

[2] No offense meant... just a little more fun with stereotypes.

[3] Reference to chapter 10, in which he says:"Every time I try (to lie), I get this look on my face that resembles a cross between a cow who's been hit one too many times with the ole cattle prod and a US senator who's just been accused of bonking the intern."

Zooie-notes

O_O This is the first action scene I ever wrote. Sorry if it was bad.

Zooie: What are you doing?

Muse: *holding roll of gift paper* You said you wanted to wrap things up....

Zooie: *cradling head in hands* I knew I should have given it a rest before continuing. Now it's up and gone insane. There's a phrase to describe this situation...

Muse: *smiles helpfully* I think it rhymes with "clucking bell." 

Zooie: That'll do... 


	18. Chapter Seventeen: Hopefully Plothole Fr...

Thank you Emily Hato (*plops chapter down on golden platter* here ya go!), Mama-sama, tokyo-rose, scarlettrose, tina (happy new home!), estrashtia (keep your chia pet away! ^_~), shinigami, and amalthea.

  


Cat's Paw 17

  


My consciousness creeps shamefacedly back from its break, having taken many more than the approved ten minutes to get itself together. After taking a nice leisurely stroll around the park, stopping to ogle the occasional wildflower along the way, it finally made its way to 7-11 and purchased its frozen treat. Yes, it has indeed had its Slurpee, as is evidenced by the pounding headache I have. My neck is sore and aching, too. They're throbbing together, pulsating up and down with the enthusiasm of a cheerleader at a championship game. Brain freeze and pom poms. What more could a guy ask for?

  


I hear papers shuffling and low murmurs nearby. It sounds like two women. The two women sound like Hilde and Relena. Now that's odd. Why are they here? I should ask them. I beckon to my consciousness. It's been lingering just outside the shop door, reluctant to cross the threshold. Apparently it's been dealing with some nasty customers today. Well, there's no need to be afraid. Relena and Hilde do not bite. Well, Hilde probably does, but surely not with Relena around. Come closer, my friend. It does and the Hilde-voice gets louder. 

"His eyes are fluttering. Relena, put the papers away! He could be waking up! _Is _he waking up? What's happening? Quatre, get your ass over here and make sure he's okay! He could be having a seizure or something!"

  


"I don't think that's likely, Miss Schbeiker." That was a Quatre-voice. But he's not supposed to be here. He's supposed to be at home. He's in trouble. Maybe he's out of trouble now. Good for him!

  


Consciousness takes down the little break sign and ties its apron back on, stepping behind the register once again. He's open and ready for business.

  


"I told you to call me Hilde!" the Hilde-voice snaps. Oh, gosh. Now Quatre's in trouble again.

  


"Sorry." The Quatre-voice is close to my bed and a warm hand touches my cold hand. I open my eyes and see Quatre smiling down at me. I smile back, a little woozy. He looks worried. I'd be worried, too, if I was in trouble with Hilde. 

  


She doesn't sound happy at all. "And I also told you to quit apologizing all the time! Stop trying to take responsibility for everything! I could gouge my eyes out with this pen and you'd apologize for leaving it on the table where I could get to it!"

  


"Probably," my buddy chuckles, taking my hand in his and chafing it slightly to warm it up. It feels like he's going to rub my skin right off, but I don't have the heart to tell him to stop.

  


"So is he waking up?" Hilde demands from across the room somewhere.

  


"I'd say he _is _awake, Hilde. You've just been too noisy to notice." Relena speaks up for the first time. She's sitting in a ratty armchair not far away. She's dressed impeccably, as usual, and has her briefcase with her, also as usual. She could be a courier for top secret documents, the way she watches that thing. It's practically handcuffed to her wrist. Of course, Hilde's probably the one who owns the handcuffs.

Hilde glares at her and heads over to my bed. Unlike her friend, she's dressed in blue jeans and a sweatshirt. She doesn't even have any make-up on. "Shut up, Relena! Duo? Duo are you okay?"

  


"Hilde..." I smile. She looks better in casual clothes. Power suits don't fit her. 

  


"Hey, he recognizes me!" She disguises her relief with about as much success as a emu in dark glasses trying to get into a "Wildebeast Only" polo club. 

  


"Of course, I recog'ize you. 'M not deaf," I frown. Why does my voice sound funny? I'm doing my Ernie-with-throat-cancer impression again.

  


"Why is he slurring? Is it okay that he's doing that? Does he need a CAT scan? Is his throat okay? Maybe his larynx was bruised." Hilde is sure hyper today. I wish she'd calm down. She's confusing me. She keeps flitting from topic to topic like a gnat with ADD.

  


"Calm down. He just woke up. Give him a moment." Thank goodness for steady, reliable Quatre. Like a rock, that is my buddy. A Chevy pick-up truck in human form. 

  


"Quatre? You said you were gonna stay 'way for a while, didn't you?" I'm concerned. Why is he here? Isn't he supposed to stay at home? 

  


He smiles again. "It's all cleared up, kiddo. I'll fill you in on the details later. How are you feeling?"

  


I try to think. "Confused. This isn't my room. And why are Hilde and Relena here? They just visited."

  


"We were worried about you, you ass! When we saw what happened on the news, we came right over!" Hilde practically shouts. It hurts my head, but I don't complain. Hilde doesn't put up with whining. She should work at the DMV.

  


"What happened?" There's too much going in the room. I can't concentrate on anything and feel kind of nauseous and confused. If things don't slow down we're gonna review the many wonders of my last meal. 

  


"Don't tell me you don't remember..." Hilde sounds aghast. "See, Quatre! I told you he had a concussion!"

  


"He doesn't have a concussion." He sounds exasperated. I guess Hilde has been giving him trouble. His patience is ready to snap like a dry and brittle twig.

  


"Then why can't he remember what happened?" she demands.

  


"Probably because you won't be quiet long enough for him to think."

  


"Be quiet, Relena!" Hilde spits. Relena sighs. Quatre glares. I look around in befuddlement. The room falls into momentary silence and I close my eyes and try to clear the fog. Why would I have a concussion? Why can't I think? Why do I hurt? Did I fall down?

  


Fall down... Yes, I fell down, indeed. But why?

  


I suddenly remember. "Where's Heero?!" I bark, sitting up and looking anxiously around the unfamiliar room. My brain panics and slams on the brakes like a scared woman on a the LA freeway. Are there any dark corners where he could be lurking? Any crevices that could be concealing his heinous self? Any objects that could be used as weapons in the near vicinity? Batten down the hatches! Call Scotland Yard! 

  


"Calm down. He's gone. They took him away hours ago." Quatre speaks soothingly, rubbing my back. Why is he treating me like such a baby? 

  


"Took him away? Where?" I hope it's someplace far, far away. No one tries to kill me and gets away with it! No one! At least no one without a hunting license. 

  


Quatre looks wary. "We're... not allowed to say. But when you feel up to it, Detective Barton would like to have a word with you."

  


"Can he come now?"

  


"I'll go ask." Hilde runs out of the room.

  


"Can you guys stay?"

  


"That's up to him." Quatre and Relena exchange glances. I lean back against the pillows and wait for Barton to arrive.

  


It isn't long. 

  


"Hello. I'm glad to see you're feeling--"

  


"Can they stay?" I greet him. 

  


He smiles slightly, not missing a beat. He could be a drummer in a bebop jazz band. Hilde could lend him her beret. "I suppose there would be no harm if they stayed. They already know all the details, at any rate."

  


"The details?"

  


"Of the investigation on Heero Yuy. You had us worried there for a while. We were sure you were going to ruin the operation." Quatre abandons my bedside to Barton, going to sit with Hilde and Relena against the far wall. I feel vaguely abandoned as the lanky man folds himself into the chair.

  


"Me? How?" 

  


"During our discussion the other day, your accusations were a bit close for comfort. I was almost certain we were going to have to abort the plan."

  


"What plan?"

  


"The plan to get Heero Yuy to confess, of course!" Hilde practically shouts, sounding frustrated. I wonder just how long they've been waiting to hear this conversation.

  


"Miss Schbeiker, I must insist that you remain quiet, or I'll be forced to ask you to leave."

  


"Sorry..."

  


"That's alright. Now, Duo, I know you haven't been able to watch the news lately, but do you recall about a month ago when a story ran about terrorist investigations?"

  


"I think so. They were getting close to catching one group, weren't they?"

  


"Correct. With the aid of several private detectives, the FBI had managed to track down several key leaders in one of the particularly active groups. They were extremely close to catching the terrorist head when their top investigator met an unfortunate accident and was killed. His name was Odin Lowe."

  


"But that's who Heero was with when..."

  


"Affirmative. Despite what I told you the other day, their relationship was indeed genuine. Heero was orphaned as a young child and his uncle took him in. However, his career as a private investigator left him little time to care for a young boy and he deposited Heero at the Camp Dover Military Training Academy as soon as he was old enough to qualify. He seldom visited the boy and contacted him erratically. Anyone who knew Lowe could see that while he loved his nephew, he didn't know how to express that emotion. Heero seemed to frustrate him immensely and to call their relationship cool would perhaps be an understatement. Lowe seemed particularly threatened by one of Heero's teachers, Dr J, who the boy obviously idolized. As Heero grew older, Lowe became more and more suspicious of Dr J. Almost two months ago, he became so distrustful of him that he began an investigation into his past... Are you getting all this? You look confused."

  


"Just trying to figure out who was telling the truth, when. Go ahead."

  


"Lowe was already working on the terrorist case and when he began to see parallels between Dr J's past actions and terrorist activity, he intensified his investigation. Just before the accident, he uncovered evidence -which I am not at liberty to discuss- that firmly pointed to Dr J as a terrorist leader. Lowe, worried for Heero's safety, asked permission to extricate his son from the school before J's arrest. He asked that he be given time to remove Heero from the premise before any capture attempts were made. He knew the boy worked often with J in the school's labs and was afraid that he would be killed or used as a hostage. He was granted permission and instructed to call the SWAT team as soon as he was clear. He immediately drove to Camp Dover. Heero was indeed working with J in the lab and Lowe managed to convince him to leave under the premise of getting some lunch and talking things out. The gate guards said they left at 11:23AM. By 11:30, their car was wrapped around a guardrail on the highway.

Barton sighs heavily. "The crash had us rather confused. It was clear from an examination of the car's mechanics that there had been no cause for a malfunction. Everything would have been in optimal working order. In addition, Lowe's post mortem examination determined his cause of death to be the crash itself, so that ruled out the possibility that he had a heart attack while driving and lost control. There was no reason for the crash to have occurred. This made us suspect foul play.

"We knew that Lowe had been working on the high profile terrorist investigation and that he had just had a break-through. Then the crash occurred and we feared the worst. We suspected that somehow a member of the terrorist group had discovered Lowe's position and managed to stow away in his car, causing the crash. However, DNA testing revealed no trace of a third party. Then we suspected that another car, driven by a terrorist, had tried to run Lowe off the road. No witness testimony supported this theory. We were once again at a loss.

"We began to suspect Heero when we found Lowe's cell phone in the backseat of the car. When we checked the call history, we discovered that a call had been placed immediately after the accident. The number dialed was that of Dr J's office. When the SWAT team arrived at Camp Dover half-an-hour after the call was made, Dr J was gone. His lab was in a state of disarray and witnesses said he departed in a great hurry, telling no one of his destination. No trace of him has been found since. The call had obviously been a warning and had allowed him to flee before the arrest could be made.

"We began to piece together a scenario. Lowe, thinking his nephew innocent to Dr J's actions, had told him what he discovered. Heero became angered and denied his teacher's involvement. They argued and when Lowe attempted to call the SWAT team, as instructed, Heero, enraged, made a grab for the cell phone. In the struggle that followed, Lowe lost control of the car and it crashed.

"When we examined Heero's school bag, we found further reason to suspect him. A notebook filled with what appeared to be physics equations turned out to actually contain bomb calculations. They were written in both Dr J's and Heero's handwriting. We also found business cards in his wallet for places that sell the supplies needed to make a car bomb. What appeared to be a Palm Pilot actually was a remote bomb trigger. In and of themselves, these items would not be enough to incriminate Heero. He truly might have been clueless to what they pertained. He might have assumed the equations were simply a part of his military training and that he was holding the business cards because Dr J had a penchant for losing things. As for the Palm Pilot, he might not have known what it really was. What password was input determined what function it performed. He might never have known it was anything more than it seemed.

"Here's where we blurred the rules a bit. We knew he was going to be in the hospital for some time, due to his injuries. While standard operating procedure dictates that he should have been put in a secure location, we decided to place him in a normal room under strict observation and see what happened. We needed some kind of solid evidence to determine his involvement or lack thereof. We suspected he might inadvertently slip up and say something. If he didn't, well, we'd just take him in for questioning when he was well enough and hope for the best. We planted the notebook, wallet, and Palm Pilot in the room in the hopes that he would talk about them and give us a clue to his connection to the terrorists.

"The police officers you saw so often were actually FBI agents and were as much for your protection as anything else. If Heero was capable of assaulting his own father, we didn't want to take any chances. It was risky, but we thought if we left him in a room with someone his age, he might say more than if placed with an adult. We bugged the room and set up a hidden camera. Then we stepped back and watched.

"When your lawyer friends here came for a visit, we thought the cover was blown. We knew they'd recognized Heero from news reports and when Ms. Darlian demanded your room be changed, we were certain the jig was up. However, we managed to convince both her and Ms. Schbeiker of your safety and they recognized the value of our investigation. They agreed to cooperate fully, mainly because of the chance to represent you in court if you wish to press charges against us for endangerment."

I knew his little story had been too freakin' weird to be true. How ironic is this, that the law enforcement lies more than the juvenile delinquent? 

"So what happened? Why was Heero arrested? How did he prove he was involved?"

"Heero knew he was being investigated and why. He never said anything that indicated whether he knew what he was doing or not. He probably did, but we have no evidence as of yet. However, thanks to the strangling incident, we were able to arrest him for attempted murder and obstructing justice. He knew where Dr J went and yet never said a word, even when asked directly.

"I apologize for the assault. We didn't know he would become so incensed so quickly. I take all responsibility. You had no idea what you were saying and as for him... Well, he thought you were knowingly aiding our investigation. He seemed very betrayed and was apparently quite fond of you. He ranted and raved for some time after his arrest."

I shiver. So crazies know their own, after all. "So what happens now? Did you catch the terrorist guy?"

"He fled the country right after Heero called him. Unless we receive international support, it is unlikely we will procure his arrest. As for Heero himself, who knows? He'll go on trial and the jury will determine what happens.

"I'm sorry you had to be involved in all this, kid, but thanks for you help. We appreciate it."

"Wait. You said that this is an FBI case. Does that mean–"

"Special Agent Trowa Barton. Pleased to meet you," he smiles, flipping out a genuine FBI badge, just like on the X-Files. This guy could definitely give Mulder some tips on coolness factor. "Take care, kid." He rubs my head, grins, and turns to leave.

"You will be hearing from us," Relena warns him as he nears the door.

He pauses and smiles. "I wouldn't expect less. Good day." 

-end chapter 17-

Zooie: PUT THEM AWAY!

Muse: *big chibi eyes* But...

Zooie: NOW! 

Muse: *bursts into tears and flees, dragging plot holes along with it*

Zooie: *frantically rereading chapter* I swear, if I find any of those things in here....


	19. Chapter Eighteen: Say Cheese

Thank you to everyone who's ever reviewed! I don't know what I've done to deserve the attention of such a wonderful group, but I appreciate each and every one of you. Your reviews have never failed to make me smile, laugh, and even jump up and down with glee. You get all the credit for this fic, for if it hadn't been for your enthusiasm, I don't know that Cat's Paw would be what it is. ^___^ 

  
  


Cat's Paw 18

I turn to my assembly of self-proclaimed guardians. They stare at the door as it closes behind Barton, looking very much like three disgruntled mama bears. I wouldn't be surprised if they disemboweled the next thing that crossed their paths. Or mine, for that matter.

  


"Excuse me," I venture. Their heads snap simultaneously in my direction. Whoa. Synchronized staring. Impressive. "I'm feeling a smooge... overwhelmed. Can I ask some questions?"

  


"As long as they're not the baby-making ones," Hilde grins, dispelling the somber mood. She crosses the room and flops across the other, unoccupied bed, collapsing with a theatrical sigh. Relena rolls her eyes from her shabby chair and Quatre shoves Hilde over, perching next to her on the mattress. She shifts so that her head is resting on his shoulder and giggles when he gives her a noogie.

  


Either they did some serious bonding while I was snoozing or their idea of personal space is a lot narrower than my own.

  


"So what's on your mind?" Relena gently asks, giving me her undivided attention. Quatre and Hilde settle down and turn to face me, as well. I wonder if this is how the fish in the lobby aquarium feel when the visitors stare at them. Huge, disembodied faces floating at them from behind a veneer of glass, doing remarkable imitations of the Wizard of Oz. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain!

  


Focus, Duo. Focus. 

  


I take a deep breath. "Well, first of all, am I correct in assuming that my old room is off-limits until the investigation is over?"

  


"You got it, kid," Hilde nods. "They slapped so much police tape up, you couldn't hack your way through with a chainsaw."

  


Well, shoot. I hope I get my stuff back soon. I really want my rubberband gun, among other stuff. That thing is better than a safety blanket and ten times as painful.

  


Speaking of painful... "Am I also correct in assuming that I can expect to be summoned to court somewhere in the future?"

  


Relena fields that one. "I'm afraid so," she sighs. "There is an odd chance that it will settle out of court, but you'll most likely be asked to serve as a witness."

  


"How can I get out of it?" Always ready to be the model citizen, that's me!

  


Hilde pretends to think. "Well, you can die. Or flee the country. Say! You could go insane! But, wait. You've already done that."

  


"Oh, be quiet, you," Quatre groans, giving her another noogie. She blows him a raspberry, but does shut up.

That brings us to the Big Question. The one I don't really want to know the answer to.

  


"Would it be out of line," I wince, "to believe that everything I have said and done for the past month has been recorded on tape and video and will be forever archived in the depths of the FBI filing system after being overly analyzed by a team of top specialists?"

  


"That's pretty likely," Hilde flinches. "But, hey! You'll be in good company. We're all on tape right along with you. Say, I wonder what they'll make of Miss Prim and Proper here cursing?" She smirks wickedly at Relena, who refuses to meet her eyes and instead opens her briefcase, shuffling papers about feverishly. 

  


Quatre chuckles. "Don't worry, Relena. They've seen me cry. Twice."

  


Hilde crows. "That's because you're a wussy-wuss boy!"

  


"Hush, little Miss 'they'll never know it was me who spilled the beans.' I'm surprised they didn't arrest you that night just on charges of sheer pigheaded-ness." 

  


Although I appreciate Hilde's efforts to lighten things up, I'm not in a laughing mood. She may be able to snicker at the FBI's funniest home videos, but for me it's hardly the same thing. They only make the occasional cameo appearance. My entire life is on those tapes, everything from the conversations with inanimate objects to one-sided Scrabble games to bratty temper tantrums. They don't exactly show me at my most best and most balanced. Maybe I won't have to testify at the trial after all. They'll take one look at the tapes and rule me insane.

  


Well, they wouldn't be the first. Hilde just did that two seconds ago.

  


It's probably because I'm a little pissy about the videos that I allow the next question to sneak past my lips. I really don't mean to ask it. I really don't. But before I know quite what's happening, it has donned its sheep costume and tip-toed on past my mental restraints, so wily you could pin a tail on it and call it a weasel. 

  


"Why was it that all three of you knew exactly what has been going on and purposefully kept me ignorant? How was it that anyone who watched the freaking six o'clock news knew what was going on and yet I was absolutely clueless?"

  


The laughter stops and they exchange guilty looks. The silence is thicker than the large print version of _the Complete Works of Charles Dickens _and twice as melodramatic.No one speaks for a while, then Quatre offers a quiet explanation. "It wasn't... quite as bad as that. The information on the news was sketchy at best. They didn't identify Heero by name or even say how he was involved. They just mentioned that he was injured in the car accident that took Lowe's life. And actually, they didn't even release that Lowe was dead until yesterday night. He was reported as being in critical condition."

  


"The only reason Relena and I knew to be alarmed," Hilde speaks up, "was because of our connections in the legal system. Otherwise we never would have thought that he or Lowe were connected to the terrorists. And if you recall, we thought that Heero was _in _danger, not _the _danger." She and Relena exchange sardonic looks. "We almost lost our practice because of that stunt," Hilde reveals, looking slightly ill. "The only reason they didn't shut us down was because we agreed to cooperate fully with their orders. Otherwise I _never _would have lied to you. Oh, God. I'm sorry, Duo. That was a real shitty thing for me to do. I chose myself over you."

  


"It's okay, Hilde," I smile reassuringly, hoping she doesn't start to cry. There are two things in life I just can't handle: bread pudding and girls crying. The sight of either is enough to make me want to flee the room, climb a tree, and refuse to come down until the Apocalypse. Or dinner, whichever comes first. "I would have been plagued with guilt until I died if you _had _given up your practice for me. Trade a successful career for some loser kid? You would have to be crazy–" 

"Stop it," she interrupts me, looking upset. _Bread pudding!!!_ my head screams frantically. "You're not a loser. You're a real brat sometimes, but..." Her voices pitters off and she stands with a wobbly smile. "Excuse me. I need to use the ladies room." We all watch in silence as she flees the room. I am grateful, for her departure saves me the trouble. I guess every cloud _does _have a silver lining (except for the mushroom shaped ones, which have a lining of Iridium & Strontium 90).

"I got the same story you did," Quatre picks up the verbal ball after a pause. "Barton told me the same billionaire lie." He shakes his head, looking angry with himself. "I knew my father didn't know Sano Yuy, but when I asked him about it, he told me to leave it alone. And like a brainless, obedient son, I did. I should have insisted--"

"Why?" I snort, ending his guilt spiral before it can corkscrew down more than a few inches. "So he could ship you off to Nigeria to your sister's safekeeping? I'm glad you didn't ask, Q, because then you would have felt obligated to tell me and that would have led to all kinds of trouble."

"A coincidence, wasn't it," Relena randomly muses. "The names, I mean. Yuy is a rather uncommon surname outside of Asia."

Quatre shakes his head. "There were a lot of coincidences. Or maybe just careful planning. I'm not sure which. Either way, I'm sure glad it's over with. I'm ready to return to my boring life now, thank you very much."

"I'll drink to _that_," I sigh. I rue the day I ever wished for a roommate. Over the past month I have been punched, strangled, deprived of the remote control, forced to confront eyebrows with plans of world domination, verbally abused, scared witless, and had my privacy severely violated to boot. I should either be spitting angry, an emotional eunuch, or flat-out overwhelmed. Instead I feel almost giddy. 

Only I could manage to get myself into a situation like that one. Of course, I had a little help along the way. I'm kind of going to miss Heero, in a strange sort of way. We went through so much together... and most of it was his fault. He may not have been the ideal roommate, but he was sure better than the freaky clown poster.

I loathe clowns. Give me a good ole psychopath any day. They might both be a few nuts short of a Snickers bar, but at least the psycho doesn't expect you to applaud him for it.

A sudden thought trots to my attention and prances about until I verbalize it, as desperate for attention as Dennis Rodman. I really need to have a little chitchat with my thought processes one day. Instill some discipline into them. I don't know what kind of impression they're trying to give, but I know I for one am slightly repulsed by towering, green-haired transvestites sporting pierced nipples. "Say, Q, what wound up happening with Dorothy? I thought you were supposed to stay away from the hospital until further notice."

He looks majorly pissed. "Long story short, that bastard S tried to pin the whole thing on me. I'm just an intern, so I work interdependently with a resident doctor. Hospital policy requires the senior doctor to monitor the intern's work. That includes re-checking their patients to see that they've been properly treated. The day Dorothy seized, I wasn't the last one to see her. I was just the last to sign off on her chart. S had been to check her not fifteen minutes before it happened and was apparently too busy to scribble his signature. Luckily Tracy remembered seeing him leave the room."

"So it was his fault, not yours, and when he realized it, tried to save his ass by canning you," I summarize. "What a... a... jerk!." If you can't say anything nice, then at least have the decency to be vague.

"To put it mildly. But thanks to my excellent legal counsel," he smiles at Relena, "my job is once more out of peril."

"So _that's _why you and Hilde seem so familiar with one another," I deduce. "They give you legal advice!"

"Well, they've been doing a lot more than that for me," Quate grins. "Should we tell him now or wait for Hilde to come back?"

"Oh, we have to wait. She'll kill us if we don't." Relena grins, drawing some papers out of her briefcase. 

"And that would kind of defeat the entire purpose," Quatre sighs. 

He is promptly chided. "Hush! You'll give it away!"

"What is going on here?" I ask with narrowed eyes. "Haven't there been enough secrets around this place?"

"Oh, but this is a good secret." Relena claps her hands and practically bounces in her seat. The action is so far diverged from her normal character that my mind cannot quite align the concepts of "perky" and "Relena." The best it can come up with is "showing mild interest in the everyday affairs of others" Relena. "Looking something other than offended with society" Relena. Perhaps "Caffeinated" Relena? Complete with Mr. Coffee and bonus filters?

"What did you do? Quatre! Explain!" I demand, crossing my arms against my ribs. I just finish speaking when the door swings open. 

"You told him already?" Hilde yelps, coming back into the room.

"Don't worry. We didn't start without you," Relena reassures her.

"Oh, good. Sorry I took so long, but I had to run to the car and get this." She holds up a Polaroid camera. "I have the feeling we're going to need it."

"Why do I feel like I'm about to be drawn and quartered?" I warily ask.

They beam at me in delight. I don't know whether to be excited or scared. I settle on a mixture of the both. 

"Well," Quatre begins, "we've been putting the past couple of days to good use. We've spent a lot of time just sitting around, you know. And you know what they say about idle hands."

"They do the devil's work," I finish the cliche, wondering where this could possibly be leading. I swear, if they found me another roommate...!

"You always have been our little Satan-spawn," Hilde pretends to shed crocodile tears. "Oh, how we'll miss you!" 

Quatre elbows her in the ribs. "Quiet!" 

I am totally confused. It must have shown on my face, for they all grin even wider.

I hope they're having fun, those detestable juggernauts of deceit. My heart is in my throat, my tongue is tied, and my eyes are bulging. Do I look pathetic enough for you or do I need to start quoting Little Nell? Have mercy on me and explain, already! 

"What would you say," Relena begins again, shuffling her papers about, "if I told you someone wanted to adopt you?"

Talk about being blind sided. 

"I'd say you were full of shit," I reply, forgetting to censor my comment. 

They chortle. I blink.

"What would you say," Hilde continues, "if I told you this someone was insanely rich?"

"That you spent too much time sniffing paint thinner as a kid."

They chortle. I blink.

"What would you say," Quatre smiles broadly, "if I told you I'd no longer be the youngest one in my family?"

"HOLY FUCKING SHIT."

Hilde snaps a picture. "Told you we'd need it!" she laughs. 

~+~+~

Afterwards....

Special Agent Trowa Barton was never heard from again. No record of him exists anywhere publically accessible. However, a man bearing a remarkable resemblance was once spotted on a Calvin Klein billboard modeling underwear, French-cut male bikinis to be precise.

Heero Yuy was determined to be mentally unstable and was confined to a federal mental institute. He was ordered to remain there until determined capable of safely functioning in society. He was last seen weaving potholders and muttering about bulbous grotesqueries. He refers to himself as Perry Duck.

Relena Darlien and Hilde Schbeiker went on to become one of the most prominent law firms in America. Representing a vast array of clients, they achieved infamy for their refusal to represent O.J. Simpson when he was retried for murder. His lawyers successfully argued that it would be impossible to hold an unbiased trial, for upon hearing that Schbeiker and Darlien turned down the case, most of the public condemned him on the spot.

Quatre Winner earned his medical degree with flying colors and became a resident doctor at the Winner Medical Center. A favorite with the children, he can be recognized by his white blonde hair and bright red clown nose. Taking Patch Adams as an example, he treats his young patients to a healthy dose of humor, with the help of a special friend. He specializes in puns, much to the dismay of his coworkers.

Upon his adoption by Jack Winner, Duo Maxwell was promptly released into his custody. Completing his treatment as an outpatient, his bone marrow transplant proved to a complete success and he made a normal recovery. He never was called to testify against Heero Yuy. Even as the youngest of thirty-one siblings, he never forgot those long, lonely days in the hospital, talking to bedpans and oxygen masks. As soon as he was well enough, he volunteered at the WMC where he quickly learned exactly what candy-stripers do besides push wheelchairs. He can often be seen by Quatre's side, putting smiles on patients' faces with the help of a sock-puppet named Drippy. Some friends are just too close to our hearts to leave behind. [1]

THE END

Footnotes

[1] Get it? Drippy was in his chest, right by his heart. It's a pun! Quatre specializes in puns! *crickets chirp* Um... I'll be over here now.... 

Zooie-notes

Yeah, well... it didn't come out as completely plausible as I wanted. I think I caught all the plot holes. Please point any out. Just... um... ignore the big, gaping one, okay? And if you don't know what I'm talking about... never mind.

This was really hard to write because that last chapter was the one I wrote first. Then I went back and filled in everything else. I think I was using the assumption that, like a maze, writing is easier if you work backwards. I think I have proven that assumption to be false.

Zooie: *staggers* Is it.. is it over?

Muse: Yep, but... *does happy dance* ...I wanna write more!

Zooie: After field school... I promise. But right now... I need _sleep_, you barbarous slavedriver! 

Muse: *sighs* You are cruel to me, woman, but I acquiesce.


	20. After Word

After word

(or in defense of chapter 19)

  


I've been getting a lot of feedback saying that the ending was too abrupt, seemingly rushed, and just generally blah. I myself completely agree with that, yet doubt I will change anything in the near future. I never planned on working on this project for so long and it was getting to the point where it annoyed the crud out of me just to think about it. It started off as something fun and turned into just one more obligation. Its incompleteness was giving me guilt trips, so I stayed up for practically five days straight to finish the thing off. Finish it I did, in all its lackluster glory, and I am so relieved by this I doubt I will touch it with a ten foot pole for quite some time.

  


Secondly, the issue of Duo and Heero's friendship. There have been complaints that it was never developed and the issue remains unresolved. To be blunt, this is a POV fic. The friendship was there for the entire time the two shared a room, but Duo never perceived it. Read it again. It's there. It's just subtle.

  


Third and lastly, why is there no shounen ai? Again, this is POV fic and again, it's very subtle. Also, I personally have no fondness for romance. I generally skip over sappy scenes when I'm reading.

  


Goose (the muse): My, someone's in a cruddy mood.

Zooie: I went running today.

Goose: So?

Zooie: It started to pour when I was a mile and a half from home.

Goose: Big whoop.

Zooie: I started running really fast to get out of the rain...

Goose: And?

Zooie: And I tripped over a cardboard box and fell on my face.

Goose: *laughs*

Zooie: *growls* It's not funny! My face hurts!

Goose: Now you know how I feel whenever I look at you.

Zooie: *beats the &$#@%& out of Goose*

Goose: ...meep.

Zooie: *smiling* I feel better now!

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
